Love Like Salt
by Professor Maka
Summary: All she ever wanted was to follow in her mama's footsteps, and now Maka Albarn owns the children's bookstore her mother built from nothing. All he ever wanted was to decide his own fate, but Soul Evans took the path his parents laid out for him at Evans, Inc. When the two clash in a vicious retail war, will their online friendship and budding romance survive? For Resbang 2017
1. New Message

**A/N:** This is my Resbang offering, a You've Got Mail inspired AU. I had fun writing it, and I hope you all have as much fun reading go to my two wonderful artists, tilliquoi and macabremermaid. I had so much fun working with both! Please, please check out their phenomenal work on Tumblr.

I also must thank my betasquad, sahdah, sandmancircus, and macabremermaid, who helped make this far more readable, with a shoutout to lunar-resonance who gave her love to chapter one.

Final thanks go to sahdah and macabremermaid again for being my personal cheer squad. Your feels are the gas that made this fic go. Bae especially gave me so much encouragement, and I appreciate it like Maka appreciates blueberry muffins.

 **Warnings:** Language (potty mouths abound), sexual innuendo, mentions of physical, verbal, and psychological abuse, off screen sexual content, mentions of masturbation.

* * *

She had never thought much about the closing of Fox's department store. An overpriced dinosaur, with dated fixtures, even more dated customers, and wares that were generally a few strides out of season, the place had been well past its heyday when they shut the doors last year. Maka is convinced it had only lasted so long because of fierce customer loyalty and an excellent in store restaurant that she herself had frequented a time or twelve. Sure, she has some fond memories of going to the place with her mama as a young child, but as long as she still has her shop, her mama will always be with her.

No, Fox's had been a blip on her radar, just one more change in the ever-changing landscape of a massive metropolis like Death City, up until this morning when she had walked past the ghost of the place on her way to open shop only to find instead of boarded windows there is a large, colorful building fence around the long dormant remains that declare boldly the imminent coming of _Evans Books and Music._

Evans, Inc. The bargain basement of the online world that recently encroached on big cityscapes to become the upscale Wal-Mart of retail entertainment. Where _Evans_ comes, small shops die.

Maka is rarely fazed by much, but as she sees the slick, bright siding, she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and does a double take. This is-probably bad, right? But it doesn't _have_ to be bad. Maybe. Her shop is highly specialized, after all, and people come to her for expertise and service, neither of which _Evans Books_ can offer.

They'll be fine, she tells herself, because the alternative is simply unacceptable.

Resuming her walk, she comes to the next corner and turns down 42nd, moving to the second building over where a welcoming wooden door painted a cheery green greets her. She doesn't have to look up at the large wooden sign above to know where she is. Most people call it _Pocket Full of Posies._ Maka just calls it home.

Turning the key in the lock, she opens the door and takes in the sight of her little store, shadows broken by the morning light streaming in through the main window, dust motes dancing merrily. She has seen the sight hundreds of times since her mother's passing, thousands in her lifetime, but it remains as bittersweet as ever. She smiles fondly, ignoring the twinge of pain, the wash of nostalgia, and flips on the lights, the magic of shadow and sunbeams vanishing in the sudden flood of fluorescent.

A loud bellow of, "Heads up, Maks!" is all the warning she's allotted as she spins on her heel, just managing to catch the paper bag hurtling towards her.

The bag has heft in her hands and as she realizes the treasure she holds, she can't find it in herself to be annoyed with her oldest friend. In response, she offers a halfhearted, "Damn it, Blake, a little warning!"

Blake Barrett waves a hand her way, expression an infuriating mix of dismissive and placating. "I said 'heads up,' hello! And anyway, you don't get to whine when your god brings you a bounty of coffee and danish." He grins at her, gesturing with one hand between her bag and the drink holder with two large, steaming cups he clutches in the other. "Oh, and Marie says 'Hi.'"

Putting down the bag on the main counter, Maka rifles through and finds the danish meant for her, wrinkling her nose at what is surely a bagel with lox next to it.

"She comp you again?"

"Always."

Scoffing as she pulls a coffee from the carrier marked with her name and a heart, Maka shoves the half empty bag into his chest. Just because Blake is her oldest friend, a personal trainer who works part time at her little shop, and just because she feels bad his parents have recently sold their dojo and absconded off to San Diego doesn't mean he gets a pass.

"You aren't supposed to let her."

His shrug is only a little sheepish. "Shyeah, as if I can make her take my money. Anyway, you've wiped out half the store giving her books for the baby, so I figure it's even."

A sigh and a mild eye roll is as much reprimand as she can manage because he's not _wrong_ , she just hates feeling like she's taking advantage. Maka takes a sip of coffee-French roast, cream, and a shot of caramel, just like she likes it-and sighs, an odd mix of frustration and contentment. Marie is Marie, and Blake is Blake, and really, she's damn lucky to be surrounded by people who care. Catching sight of the fact his hair is now an eye searing blue he hasn't sported in years, a shift from the bleached blonde he's had for months, she can't help the affectionate laugh that escapes her. "Nice hair, by the way."

"Right?" He looks pleased as a peacock, fluffing it up further after taking a bite of his bagel and gross. Maka tries to ignore the nauseating smell of fish. "Figured it was past time I returned to my roots."

The pun is bad enough to snort through her laugh, though why he has returned to the blue of their high school days remains a mystery.

"Frank back yet?" she asks after swallowing a large, gooey bite of danish that makes her instantly nostalgic for her ex-roommate's baked goods.

"Nah, Marie said he found something interesting and extended the trip another week." His voice is somewhat muffled by a mouth crammed full of bagel. "Has her all freaked that the nursery won't get painted in time, so I offered to come help this weekend." He swallows and gestures her way with his half eaten bounty. "And I nominated my oldest minion to ride shotgun on this one."

She could be mad-she could be _pissed_ -but she isn't. Shrugging, she stifles a smile as she mutters, "Yeah, whatever." Sometimes Maka forgets how fundamentally _decent_ Blake is beneath all the ex-fratboy bravado.

" _Any_ -way," he draws out the first y obnoxiously. "Did you catch sight of our new neighbor?"

Not meaning to furrow her brow so deeply, she tilts her head. "What now?" With Eastwick on one side and the bank on the corner, the question doesn't make sense. Neither Kim nor Jackie have mentioned relocating and the bank is a hundred year old fixture.

"Someone bought the old Fox building. Any guesses who?"

The scoff is completely warranted. "I have to walk right by on my way here, which you know by the way, so I'd be an idiot to miss it. They don't do anything small, do they?"

"It's how they muscle out the little guys-which in this case is us. We are _so_ boned."

Waving a dismissive hand, she takes a last bite of danish and shrugs, allowing herself to chew and swallow at a leisurely pace she knows makes him impatient.

"People go to Evans for a cheap media fix. People come to us for service. We'll be _fine_."

His returning look is pure skepticism, unusual for the man who never says die, but he shrugs after a moment. "Just figure we should have a plan."

Blake is probably right, but she doesn't want to think about that just now, doesn't want to consider there could be a protracted fight ahead, so she doesn't. Instead, finishing her pastry, she takes her coffee with her to the small back office, leaving Blake to get the till set. They'll be opening soon and she's itching to check in on her favorite person. He's not an early riser, normally, but he'd mentioned something about a big project starting and needing to actually head to work early-wherever and whatever work actually is for him. Maka doesn't have the first clue and the mystery still holds some charm, though sometimes she deeply regrets insisting they not share personal details so _stridently_. The curiosity digs at her.

 _Her favorite person-_ -she couldn't pick him out in a lineup, doesn't even know his real name!

Pianoman564.

Mostly, she just calls him PMan, and their talks have been the highlight of her day for months.

 _Hey, you awake yet?_ she shoots off a Skype message as she closes the office door behind her. _You better be awake, lazyass. You said you have an early day._

The response doesn't take long.

 _awake yes alive debatable need 50 ccs of coffee stat_

She stifles a snort because she does _not_ need Blake hovering. Or more accurately, she doesn't want to take shit from Blake over an innocent conversation with a friend.

 _At least it's a lovely fall morning. Leaves are starting to change and everything. I know we don't have as many deciduous trees here as some places, but maybe that's why it's so striking-there really is something magical about Death City in the Fall, between the sparsely scattered changing trees and hustle and bustle of a new school year._

There's a longer pause which means he's going to level more than a sentence. Maka braces herself for incoming snark. PMan does not disappoint.

 _u mean thousands of frazzled parents panicking over a new school year like they don't expect it like its not the same time every fuckin year? or maybe all that overhyped pumpkin shit thats literally everywhere like were in the heart of old new england instead of the middle of the damn desert? but since u enjoy, i will send u a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils to celebrate the season_

This time she does snort, but thankfully Blake either doesn't notice or doesn't care. A bouquet of newly sharpened pencils? _Really?_ The image makes her smile.

 _And I'll buy you all the pumpkin coffee you can drink since you clearly love it so much. What time is your big meeting anyway?_

This time, his response is fast.

 _2 soon need 2 shower l8r bookworm_

She's a little disappointed at the abrupt cut off if she's honest-normally he talks longer and gives more warning-but she refuses to acknowledge it. After all, they are just anonymous acquaintances. He doesn't owe her his time and he's certainly allowed to be busy.

 _Okay-don't fall asleep again-I wouldn't want you to drown. Good luck!_

But PMan is already offline, so she tucks away her phone and busies herself with ordering to bulk up inventory for the coming season-the holidays are always their boom time and she looks forward to the upswing in sales that will cushion her bank account for the fluctuations of the coming year -refusing to think about what the looming specter of _Evans Books_ might mean for the future.

* * *

Soul Evans is running late-five minutes late to be as precise as his brother's personal assistant Ox surely will be. Why Wes had felt the need to torment him with the extra help Soul couldn't say other than the ongoing, tacit acknowledgement that his brother is a bit of a sadist. "You'll need the help with the store set to open next month. And anyway, Liz has been helping out, I don't need him right now," he'd said with his trademark dismissive hand wave when Soul had objected. He'd had his own suspicion as to exactly how Liz was "helping" and why his brother would rather see Ox Ford out of sight and out of mind, but he hadn't been about to say it-he really preferred not to reinforce the image by speaking it aloud, and online sales wasn't his division or his problem. If Wes was willing to lose his right hand, well, fine, he'd deal. So, Soul had bitten his tongue with a somewhat sullen shrug and a flat voiced, "Whatever," and wondered if he'd ever be able to outgrow the feeling that he was just the lesser Evans son, Wes Evan's failure of a baby brother.

Over two years into this new, wildly successful venture, this latest branch of Evans, Inc., his very own brain child that is _Evans Books and Music,_ and he's still being coddled by his big brother, still doesn't feel good enough by half. Maybe he never will.

He's chosen to walk to work today since what will be the flagship store of his division is so damn close to his building, and anyway, he really needs caffeine and some not nearly brisk enough Fall desert air to wake him the fuck up. As he dips into _Marie's_ , he's greeted by the heavenly smell of pastries and coffee and nearly drools. If nothing else, at least Soul has great coffee and bagel to look forward to. He orders a double espresso instead of his usual cafe americano and a bagel with cream cheese and extra lox. Marie Mjolnir herself is manning the register, oversized belly limiting free access to the cash drawer. She looks surprised or maybe concerned but just says, "That'll be 8 dollars and 60 cents, please."

As he surrenders his platinum card to run through the machine, she says, "You're up early this morning. Normally you don't come in for a few hours." Soul shrugs. He can tell she wants to say more, maybe wants to ask if something's wrong, but she doesn't. He doesn't know her well-they aren't aquatinted beyond his near daily coffee runs into her shop-but he's always appreciated her discretion. She isn't nosy or in his face, ever, just polite and observant; she generally rings in his order before he even makes it. Now, he can add perceptive and maybe even kind to the list, and after he thanks her for the bagel and coffee she hands over, she tells him, "Take care" as he approaches the door and he feels like she genuinely means it.

Pausing just outside, Soul takes a sip of his coffee and sighs gratefully. Sweet, sweet caffeine, gift of his lord and savior, mother coffee, his love and lifeblood. He drinks so much in any given day he wouldn't be surprised if a cut bled black, more espresso than blood running through his veins.

The moment he steals to take in the sight just down and across the street is well earned. Slick construction walls greet him, wrapped in colorful, inviting imagery of the coming store, _his_ store, his newest baby. He must admit, the design team outdid themselves on this one, with tasteful images set in the Los Angeles store of attractive- yet not so overly attractive as to take away the from the feel of _Everyman-_ people, hipsters on comfy chairs enjoying a book and a steaming latte, or a bright faced family in one of the listening pods sampling the latest music. If he weren't the one directing the whole thing, he would probably be enticed by the images to check it out. Though his former self would more likely have been repulsed by how very _corporate_ it all looks, turning his nose up and marching straight off to whatever elusive, dying independent record store he could manage to find.

Well, he's as corporate as he never wanted to be now, and hell, bringing high quality, low cost books and music to the masses in comfort and style really isn't such a terrible thing, is it?

Some part of him whispers _sell out,_ but he's pretty sure it's impossible to sell out when you were born sucking on a silver spoon.

Anyway, it's too early in the morning and too late in his life to regret his role in the family business, so he makes his way down and across the street and through the door of the construction site, home of his biggest brain child to date. He realizes he's forgotten his hard hat yet again, but Ox's constant nagging about safety does not actually outweigh his own personal need for well styled hair. Seeing the hustle and bustle as the old is torn apart to make way for the new hits him oddly. Another past will be reborn, not by his hands but by his will. When he thinks too hard, it still amazes him that all these people work for _him_.

Even a second best disappointment is _somebody_ with the Evans name attached, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he'd won or lost the genetic lottery. Phenomenal wealth and influence are his, sure, but at the cost of never feeling right in his own skin, of never feeling like he can be himself.

He's not convinced it's worth it, and Soul suddenly wishes he had time to message Bookworm. BlondeBookworm, his strange, amazing friend he's never actually met, the one person he looks forward to interacting with on any given day. She might not have the answer, but she seems to have her head on pretty straight, and at worst, she'd probably make him smile for a few minutes. She's pretty good at making him smile. Still, it's not like he can change any of it, so as he spots the ever punctual Mr. Ford heading his way, Soul makes his way to his new makeshift office to prepare for the planning meeting. After all, he's got a special projects team to wow.

* * *

Staring at a new message as she lays on her bed, feet kicking languidly in the air, Maka doesn't know quite how to answer.

 _do u ever wish u did something different with ur life? like maybe u took the wrong path but now ur stuck and u cant fix it so u just keep moving because what choice do u have?_

Does she ever...? Sometimes. When it's dark, and she's alone, sometimes she wonders-if her mama had lived, if she had felt free to choose, might she have walked a different path?

Maka has always loved to write, had also sometimes thought she wanted to see the world and do something bigger than herself, but then her mama died and she could only think to continue her legacy. She couldn't abandon the store her mother had loved, the store that has always been her home. But when it's late and still, sometimes she thinks _what if_ and gets a little sad. Probably, she just misses her mama, but maybe there's something else there, too. She usually tries not to think too hard on it, but PMan is so rarely serious that she feels like she should be honest. With him, it's safe to be honest.

 _Sure, sometimes. Not often, but it happens. But I love my life so I figure, in the end, I'm where I'm meant to be._

It doesn't take him long to answer.

 _and if u wernt happy?_

But she _is_ , isn't she? Maka has friends and a thriving shop with loyal customers. She gets to foster a love of reading in children for a living, what's not to be happy about?

But still, she should try to give an honest answer.

 _If I weren't happy, I guess I might have to rethink things. But it might also be about how I'm looking at it. Maybe I'd try to embrace the path I'm on and make it my own, I'm not sure. Or maybe I'd decide to take the path I should have been on to begin with. It's hard to say unless I was there, I guess._

There is a long pause, pregnant. PMan has always been full of snark and cynicism, he's definitely complained in vague ways about his controlling family, but he's never quite said he's unhappy before. It makes her heart ache inexplicably, and she has to remind herself again that for all she _knows_ him, she doesn't really know him at all.

 _i guess that makes sense_ , he finally replies, quickly followed up with _i just wish it was as easy as u make it sound_

Her response is effortless, a mantra she's repeated to herself a thousand, thousand times,

 _Few things worth doing are easy._

He answers back quickly, and she suspect it's just as thoughtless.

 _so they tell me. anyway, i know u have an early day so ill let u go to bed. later, bookworm_

 _Yeah, goodnight PMan._

As she closes her laptop and sets it carefully on the nightstand, Maka can't help but to wonder when her heart had become so heavy. Or maybe she just wonders when _his_ did.

* * *

When he's asked, Soul will generally tell people he hates kids. He has an image to maintain, after all, and kids don't mesh well with jaded, aloof family slacker. In truth, though, he's always had a soft spot for children. Maybe it's because his own childhood had been so messy, maybe he enjoys living vicariously. Maybe he secretly wishes he'd had a grown up who listened and understood and _cared_. Then again, maybe he just needs a break from it all, so when his ex college roommate Killik Rung comes in to see Harvar D'eclair, his personal assistant, little brother and sister in tow-he apparently picked up a last minute gig and lacks childcare-Soul is quick to offer his services.

"I'll take them," he interrupts Harvar, who is currently telling his boyfriend that he's working, damn it, and _now is not the time._

Both men blink at him, clearly unaware that he'd been listening at all, but Aiden and Indra rush to hug his legs.

"Uncle Soul! Uncle Soul! Can we really go with you?" Aiden squeals.

"Mmmmm." He taps his chin in mock thought.

"Pleeeeeease?" Indra looks up at him with wide blue eyes. She's definitely got the puppy dog look down.

"I guess," he says, sounding entirely put out.

"You really don't have to," Kilik says. He looks mildly embarrassed.

"You know you'll be getting a call from Mrs. Evans if you don't get those estimates over to corporate," Harv helpfully reminds him.

The scowl he offers his assistant, brimming with his oddly sharp teeth, might have scared other children, but the twins are long since used to him. Soul punctuates the look with a shrug as an idea hits him.

"You do it. Or hell, have Ox do it, he'll be over the moon. Been meaning to spend some time with my two favorite brats anyway."

There are protests coming from the vicinity of his waist to the tune of, "I'm not a brat!" but he ignores them.

"Soul, you really don't-" Kilik says at the same time as Harvar deadpans, "And if your mother calls?"

"Tell her I'm hard at work," he says as he adjusts their oversized hardhats before grabbing a hand from each kid. He starts to walk because really, his small, makeshift office in the midst of a construction zone is no place for kids, but pauses as another thought strikes him.

"Actually, I'll take them for the night if you want. You guys could probably use the break, and I could use the excuse not to attend the weekly family nightmare."

It's true, and he likes the kids, he always has, so he doesn't mind giving his best friend and his assistant some alone time. Soul still isn't sure how they'd ended up an item, but somewhere along the line, Kilik coming in to see him had turned into Kilik coming in to see Harv. He can't say he gets their relationship either, his dry, precise assistant with his laid back, go with the flow ex-roommate, but he figures it takes all kinds. Anyway, it's not like he's ever understood the whole love thing.

"Don't blame me when you get an earful for this next week," Harvar interrupts his train of thought.

"It's your job to take the blame, isn't it?" Soul says breezily as he resumes walking.

"I definitely don't get paid enough for this shit," Harv mutters, but they both know he doesn't mean it. "And Ox is going to be completely up my ass. You owe me, Evans."

"Yeah, yeah." It's dismissive, and Soul walks away, content with his good deed in placing the rest of his day's responsibilities firmly on the shoulders of his assistant.

"I'll pick them up at 11 tomorrow," Kilik says. "You mind dropping by their stuff when you get off?" He looks to Harv, who shrugs, a gesture as close to affirmation as the assistant is likely to give. Killik then walks over to give the kids a kiss and hug goodbye. "Be good for Uncle Soul, you two."

"We will!" They sing song, and maybe they even mean it, but Soul is well used to their shenanigans. They'll be fine. Probably. They always are.

* * *

Maka doesn't notice much about them as they enter the store on a crowded Friday afternoon. To her, they are just another man and his kids looking for books. The Art Festival is going on down the street and the store is absolutely packed with well dressed children and their hipster parents all looking for books on Picasso or Pollock or Van Gogh. She's a little busy, anyway, currently reading _The Paper Bag Princess_ to an enraptured crowd, tiny faces turned towards her, eyes full of wonder and laughter alternatively.

This is her favorite part of what she does, seeing the spell books cast on impressionable young minds, seeing their magic in action, and her own sense of wonder is real every time.

As she finishes the book and two children swarm her with questions, other listeners more effectively drawn away by conscientious parents and an announcement from Kid that copies of _The Paper Bag Princess_ are available up front, Maka has no choice but to turn her attention towards them. She thinks she's seen the man before on the streets-hard to miss that mop of white on his head-though the kids don't look familiar. She idly wonders if he's their father, though they don't look alike. Still, it doesn't mean much-they could look like their mother or just be adopted.

"So is the princess going to become King now since she ditched the prince?" Both children are eager in their questions. They are dressed alike in jeans and fleece hoodies, both with short, tight curls. Only the color of the hoodies set them apart, one in red and one in yellow, and Maka can't be sure of their genders, not that she cares. Not that it matters.

"Well, Queen probably." Maka smiles. "Though she could be King if that's what she decides. She can make her own choices, like she chose to rescue the prince and then chose to ditch him." Part of her wants to add that the world might fight those choices, that pushback is inevitable, but that's for another book and an older child. For now, it's enough for this child to believe that a princess can do anything she sets her mind to. There will be time enough for disappointment in the future.

"Yeah, I'm sure the Princess's' dad won't just shove her off onto the next eligible prince with land to spare, or hell, make her marry loser number one." The low voice surprises her, and she looks up to meet red eyes, startling and skeptical all at once.

"I'm sure the story mentioned nothing about betrothal or her father, so you're right, that won't be an issue for our hero. Though there are books meant for older children in which those _are_ real issues." Her smile remains pleasant and his bored expression falters.

"Yeah, guess not every princess get the short end. Just most of them." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "And knights like Indra have their own problems, eh Ind?" The child who had asked the question nods solemnly.

"Joan of Arc died." Her voice is matter of fact, her blue eyes the same. "Girls have it harder, but we can still be Knights. I want to rescue Princes in distress and fight the patriarchy like the Princess, and Serena Williams, and Susan B. Anthony!" Her frown gives way to a brilliant smile.

"I'm glad you're getting good use out of _Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls_." The man reaches down to ruffle her hair, though it is unruffleable.

The other child, more quiet, pipes up. "I wanna be like Princess Di. Only a boy. I mean, she got to wear great dresses and help people. Though." The child looks thoughtful for a moment." I'd also rather not die."

"Not dying seems like a solid plan, Aiden. And I can guarantee you have at least one auntie and uncle who would love to take you shopping."

"Those all sound like good ideas." Maka smiles again, impressed on too many levels to count. The man is strange, with that white hair and those red eyes and, she notes, oddly sharp teeth. She's definitely seen him around the neighborhood in glimpses, and had pegged him for having a vampire fetish, but odd looks aside, he's clearly a great parent. Also, he's handsome beneath all the strange modifications, and contacts or not, there is an intensity to those red eyes beneath the devil may care attitude that gives her pause. Refusing to stare, she adds, "I'm sure you'll make your daddy here proud."

The trio exchange a look. The boy, Aiden, snorts. Indra smiles knowingly. The man looks almost confused, less amused than his children appear to be.

"Oh, no, they aren't-" he sputters and waves his hands, half flailing.

"Our daddy died," Indra cuts him off matter of factly.

It's Maka's turn to sputter. "I'm so sorry, I just assumed-I mean-"

She feels like the world must be gaping at her over such a faux pas, but her busy little bookstore continues to bustle around them as usual, the crowd busy with their own concerns.

"It's okay!" Aiden pipes up helpfully. "We don't even remember mommy and daddy, and we have big brother-and Uncle Soul, and-"

"-and Uncle Harv!" Indra adds eagerly.

"Yeah, yeah, you stinks are spoiled, we get it." The man smiles apologetically for a moment, then his face is back to the neutral zone as he adds quietly, as if he actually owes her any sort of explanation, "Their big brother used to be my college roommate. He takes care of them. Now." He looks down at the brother and sister who are suddenly giggling and whispering to each other. "You two gonna pick books or not?"

" _Paper Bag Princess_!" Indra proclaims.

"Um." Aiden looks less sure.

"I can help with that!" Maka puts in cheerfully. "It's my store, after all. If there's one thing I know, it's books."

The man makes an odd noise at that and she meets his gaze to note the shadow of-something she doesn't quite get.

"Yeah, that'd be-uh-cool." His face has gone completely bored, eyes looking anywhere but at her, so she turns her attention to the little boy in front of her.

"So, Aiden, right?" She lowers herself into a slight crouch to meet his gaze. "Tell me about your favorite books."

Twenty minutes later, both children have an armload of books to buy. Aiden has also chosen a realistic baby doll, and Indra tops her stack with a stuffed dragon. The man with them seems completely unphased by the mounting expense, leading them to the counter blithely behind Maka. There are still plenty of customers, but the Story Time crowd has dissipated and Kid must be in the back, so she takes up the second register next to Blake to ring in their purchases.

About to give out the grand total, Indra cuts in, "And a Lolli!"

Her finger points firmly to the colorful stash of large, round lollipops adorning the checkout counter.

"And two lollipops," the man agrees with a put upon sigh. "That you are totally not eating until Killik picks you up tomorrow," he mutters as Maka adds the lollipops to both bags and total.

The kids pout, but then Aiden brightens. "Will the new store have lollipops, too?" he asks, eyes wide with anticipation.

The speed with which the man swoops down to speak with the two is startling, but Maka pays it little mind. She supposes by new store he could mean _Evans_ -pretty hard to miss the signs so close to here-but the man really shouldn't be embarrassed. Kids will be kids.

They come up from their huddle and the kids smile sheepishly. "Thanks for your help, Storybook Lady!"

Smiling down at them, she corrects, "Actually, it's Maka," then turning her eyes to their guardian for the day adds, voice cheerful, "That'll be $183.35!"

Blinking at her for a moment, he asks, "Dollars?"

"Well, we also let people pay in gourmet pastry and coffee."

The guffaw is genuine, bringing a light to those odd red eyes she finds intriguing as he fishes his wallet out of a pocket and puts down two hundred dollar bills. "Sorry, fresh out."

"Well, that's too bad, but I suppose this will do, mister…?" She has yet to catch his name.

"Soul," he says, the same odd look as earlier passing his features. "Just call me Soul."

"Soul." She smiles, reaching across to hand back his change and then the bags. "Interesting name."

"So's Maka." His expression is half smirk, half eyebrow raise.

"My mom was half Japanese." Maka can't help her wistful little smile."

"That her?" He gestures towards the picture behind her to one side. Her mother is reading to her as she sits in her lap. Maka nods.

"It was."

The man must have caught her tone, because he frowns. "I'm sorry." He shakes his head. "I didn't realize-"

"Don't be," Maka cuts him off. "My mama was the strongest person I've ever known, and the last thing she'd ever want is for anyone to feel sorry for her. Anyway, Mama still lives in the heart and soul of this place. It's her legacy. As long as I have the shop, I'll always have her near. And as long as I have great customers, I'll always have the shop." She catches herself, checks the unwarranted spill of emotion. "I do hope we'll be seeing you and the kids again soon?"

"Sure." He sounds awkward at best. "Thanks for helping."

"Anytime!"

She means it in the oddest way. Why she finds an overgrown emo kid in designer slacks so interesting is hard to say. That he clearly cares for the two kids with him, who aren't his own? That beneath his snark she had caught hints of something far more genuine? Maybe it's just the puzzle of it all. People pass in and out of her life often enough that she pays most little mind, but every now and again, one strikes her and she just _knows_ that person will somehow become a fixture. The last such person she met was Crona, though Maka still hasn't figured out how to help them.

With this man-with Soul? She has no idea what role he'll play in her life, but she can't shake the odd warmth of his red eyes or the feeling he's just entered her orbit for the foreseeable future. Hopefully, that won't be a bad thing.

The smile he offers the kids as he hands them each a bag says maybe not, but she also can't help but notice the off look in his eyes as he leaves the store that suggests something there is just _wrong,_ and she thinks that maybe this time, the instinct he's just arrived on her stage is wrong, too, and that she won't see them again.

"See!" Blake elbows her. He's been busy ringing up customers, but the retreating trio leave behind a slight lull. "Gaining more loyal minions, that's the way to do it! You were totally right- _Evans Books_ can't hope to compete with a star outfit like this one, not when you have the greatest trainer in all of Death City with you!"

He smacks her on the back for emphasis before ringing up a newly approaching customer.

"I guess time will tell," she says softly, knowing it's only for herself.

And it _will_. Maka only hopes that for once, time is on her side, that for once, time tells her something she actually wants to hear.


	2. Frienemies

Maka is not having a good week.

The fact PMan has randomly sent her cute animal gifs all morning in a sweet but ultimately futile gesture to cheer her up is a burning testament to that fact.

 _Who can resist cute animal gifs?_ she might have asked a mere week ago.

This week, the answer would be her, apparently.

Today, PMan has brought out the big guns, a cat who has their entire face shoved down a glass of water to drink. Maka manages a weak chuckle as as she fires off an obligatory lol.

It warms her a bit that he's trying, that he can tell she's off without her even saying it, but it can't ease the worry gnawing at her gut.

 _Evans Books and Music_ opened for business a scant week ago, and already there's less foot traffic. A lot less. It can't be good for the numbers, but Maka's afraid to check, afraid to confirm what she already knows.

"Sales are down 40%." Kid interrupts her thoughts. His voice is far too smooth, far too precise to ever be truly jarring, but today it grates nonetheless.

"You're sure?" She knows he is. Not only is Thanatos Kachadoorian the Third, who has always gone by Kid for painfully obvious reasons, far too skilled an accountant to be working for her little store, the most methodically precise person she's ever met, but she'd known the truth before he said a word. Hearing it spoken by another person is still like a knife to the soul, a premonition of coming darkness. Maka shoves it aside. It's the first week, the new superstore down the street is-well- _new_.

The novelty will wear off and everything will be fine. Normal. Equilibrium will return to their little Pocket of the world.

Her gut persists in saying otherwise, but she ignores it.

The look Kid gives her in response could strip paint. "Do you really think I'd tell you if I weren't?"

With a sigh, Maka shakes her head the tiniest bit, a quick motion. "No, I know you wouldn't. But in this case, I was hoping I was wrong."

Kid gets up, arches his back in the tiniest stretch, and pats her shoulder awkwardly. He's never been strong with physical affection of any kind, so Maka appreciates the effort. It's a bit cramped for both of them to be standing in the tiny back office, the general clutter or years of accumulation that surrounds them carefully arranged by her meticulous accountant and friend, but they're well used to it.

"It'll be okay," he offers, though she knows he believes no such thing. "And anyway, Blake went to get some pastries from Marie, so that's something to look forward to."

She knows he really is looking forward to it, too, since Tsubaki makes sure there are always pastries with an eye towards symmetry specifically with him in mind.

"Is he mooching again?" she scolds, though her stomach betrays her better judgment with a rumble at the prospect.

"I don't believe it's technically mooching if she offered, said we needed to celebrate Blake's return to his roots."

"Wait," she manages, stunned that her oldest friend hadn't seen fit to tell her such big news. "He decided to look for his bio-"

"No," Kid interrupts quickly. "Gods no. His hair." The fact he's biting back a laugh isn't lost on her. "She likes that he dyed it blue like he had it in High School, said it suits him. I must say, I agree, and I told him as much when we were looking through your senior yearbook in the office a few weeks ago."

Well, then. That explains that.

Not that she hasn't suspected, mind, but hard confirmation has been elusive. Not that it matters, either, since in all the years she's known Kid, she's never seen him so much as glance at another person in _that_ way. Not that she has looked at anyone _that_ way herself-it's one reason they've always gotten on so well. They understand each other.

The bell to the shop rings and Maka is quick to leave the office to see who's entered, Kid sitting back down for the moment to finish his bookkeeping. She expects Blake, but sees their regular mail carrier instead and offers her a warm smile.

"Hey, Patti!" she says with a tiny wave.

Patricia Thompson has become a friend over the years since she started the route, more like family really, and they often make weekend plans. The woman is her age and has an optimism and humor Maka finds infectious. She's also Kid's current roommate, but that's another story entirely.

"Heya, Maks! How goes?" Patti grins her way, tossing a small pile on the counter. Maka can tell from several feet away it's mostly junk.

"Good, just getting things organized for the holidays-It's our busy season!"

She _hopes_.

"Awesome. We're still on for this weekend, right?"

"Absolutely. I'll bring my half and Tsu's recipe book." In years past, she would have brought Tsu, but the Japanese transplant is swamped with wedding prep. In fact, she will be fulfilling her friendly duties later today by helping her look at overseas venues online before it's off to the annual _Yumi Books_ holiday bash. Maka might have chosen to skip it because it's only 11AM and she's already mentally spent with most of the day still ahead, but her mom and Azusa Yumi had been close, and besides, Azusa always sends the best book signings her way. Now is _not_ the time to blow her off.

"Great!" Her cheerful demeanor falters then, and Maka blinks. Patti is rarely serious but her big, blue eyes are suddenly imploring. "Would you mind if I invite Crona? They-aren't having a good week."

 _Crap_. Maka's been meaning to check in on their mutual friend, the one they'd adopted together when they realized how much the poor thing really _needs_ people who care, but her head has been elsewhere. Suddenly, she feels like a selfish jerk, the worst of friends. She's not the only one with problems!

"Of course, you know they're always welcome. Are they okay? Can I-"

Patti is nearly shaking, fists clenched, and Maka knows it's bad. "I think Medusa hit them again. Half their face was swollen and-" she takes a deep, calming breath. "I'm going to talk to Kid, and I'm going to see-"

"Talk to me about what?" Kid has walked in from the office just in time to hear the last part.

"Crona Gorgon." The lack of expression on her face is eerie. "I've told you about them. Their mom-" she shakes her head, voice choked. "I've told you. And I want to invite them to live with us. If-if it's okay, I mean-"

"Of course. They can have Liz's old room." Kid looks as calm as ever, but the clenched fist tells her he knows everything.

"Oh my _God,_ Kiddo, you're the best!" Patti nearly bowls him over as she rushes him with a tight bear hug. He looks distinctly uncomfortable as he pats her back stiffly. "I mean." She disengages enough to lift her head and meet his gaze. "They won't be able to pay rent at first since they'll have to quit the flower shop, and Maddie pays them nothing anyway, so-"

"They can work here," Maka blurts. It's a stupid suggestion with their numbers tanking, and even before _Evans_ , they didn't need another person, but Maka would sooner go under than not help a friend so in need. She's been wanting to help get Crona away from their mother for a long time now, so if this is what it takes, so be it.

Kid levels her a look that she ignores in favor of bracing herself for impact as it's her turn for a bear hug.

"I have the best friends, I swear!" Patti's nearly suffocating her she squeezes so hard before she finally relents the tiniest bit and looks up at her. "You'll have to help me convince them, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Maka agrees. Kid is still leveling her a look, but she continues to ignore him as he brushes non existent dust off his suit in the aftermath of his own Patti attack.

Relief floods her as Blake finally bursts in a moment later, large box in his hands, still not a customer in sight.

His timing is impeccable for once because Maka could really use a cookie. Only 11 AM and it's already been a hell of a day.

* * *

The last thing he wants to do is attend a party, but certain things come with being in charge of brick and mortar operations, and schmoozing with the suppliers is one of them. Soul has never been good at schmoozing.

 _r u sure u guys dont want a night out?_ He makes one last ditch effort in a text to his brother.

 _It's all about the nights in._ Soul can nearly feel the eyebrow waggle and wants to gag. _Enjoy the party._

 _fuck u 2_ he replies in irritation and is about to click his phone off when he sees a new message notification pop up from BlondeBookworm.

Soul is heartily glad no one but his cat Blair is around to see his answering grin and forces himself to put down the phone and finish getting dressed before he messages back to reassure himself he hasn't completely lost his cool. If Blair judges him, her annoyed meow that he's not petting her and then subsequent flounce out of his bedroom reveal nothing.

It's futile, his cool long since fled when it comes to Bookworm, so after he manages to at least get pants in place, he reads her message.

 _Might be chatty tonight. Or quiet. Have to go to a party and really don't want to._

He forces himself to throw on an undershirt and socks before replying.

 _me 2 its stupid wish i could stay home._ He starts putting on his shirt as he waits, and by the time it's half buttoned, he has another message.

 _So do I. I'd rather stay in and catch up on Game of Thrones while we chat. Someone tried to push me into taking a date, too. Yeah, no thanks. Taking a friend instead._

 _id be ur date._ He sends it without thinking and instantly regrets it-they aren't _like that,_ even if he kind of sort of wishes they were. They haven't even met, he has no idea what she looks like, or even what her real name is. Doesn't matter.

 _Yeah, I wish. Anyway, I gotta get going. Later, PMan._

 _yeah l8r bookworm._ His heart races because that definitely wasn't a no, and maybe someday…

Soul curbs the thought as he finishes dressing because when has he _ever_ gotten what he really wants?

A million people would probably slap him at the thought because he can buy whatever his pathetic little heart desires just so long as it's for sale-trouble is, you can't sell having a choice, and that's one thing he's never really had.

Afraid to hope, he leaves his apartment trying not to think of the anonymous woman who has managed to captivate him so thoroughly.

* * *

Usually, Maka enjoys parties. She enjoys her me time too, of course, but there's something about good food and intelligent, lively company that's always been appealing for her. Meeting new people and commiserating with old friends, sharing drinks and delicacies, she should be in her element, but everything is off this week, the ominous feeling just before a guillotine blade is about to drop hanging over her life like a storm cloud.

That's why, when she glances at the man with whom she currently shares space, both perusing the hors d'oeuvre selection, he registers as vaguely familiar, but she keeps her attention firmly on the selection of cheeses. Still, the nagging familiarity persists, as does that feeling she sometimes gets but hasn't had in weeks, the one that says this man is somehow important, so she raises her eyes again and really looks.

It's _him,_ the guy who'd come into the shop several weeks back. His own eyes are fixed on the cheese selection from the other side of the buffet table just as surely as hers had been only a moment ago, and she's struck again by just how _red_ they are.

"Oh!" she says brightly, recognition pushing away the dark cloud that had hovered so closely moments before. "Soul, right? It's good to see you again, how are the kids?"

"Erm." The man looks like she just slapped him for a moment, then schools his features into careful neutrality. "Fine. They're fine. Thanks." Any playfulness has vanished. Maybe he's the type who dislikes parties. Some people do. PMan seems to absolutely hate them-he's been sending her snarky messages all night in protest of his current predicament, which she has to admit has helped the time pass.

"Well, I hope we'll see you all back in the shop. Small world, though, really." She pulls some cheese from the tray below to arrange on a small cocktail plate, figures having her attention focused only partially on him might help put him at ease. "How do you know Azusa, anyway?"

He blinks at her but before he can answer, Kid strides up. "There you are! I need your help, Marie is bringing in a seafood dip and the crackers aren't symmetrical _at all._ "

Maka sighs, but excuses herself with a, "Sorry, we'll talk later!" and then allows Kid to tug her to the kitchen. They aren't here to help Marie, also an old mutual friend of Azusa, but Kid really can't help himself sometimes.

They march to a counter amidst the bustle of the clearly annoyed serving staff, and Maka sees nothing but a mound of seafood dip ringed with caviar, crackers arranged neatly in the outermost ring around the platter.

It looks great, but a couple of crackers aren't completely even on the tray, so when Kid loudly declares, "You see what I mean?" Maka nods her assent.

"I see. We'll fix it, no problem." Maybe bringing Kid as her plus one had been a mistake, but Blake would be worse, and Kid is usually better about things, better able to reign in his impulse towards perfection. She suspects he's also stressed about their current predicament, so she dons a pair of service gloves and begins carefully rearranging alongside him.

"What were you doing talking to Solomon Evans anyway? I'd think he'd be the last one you wish to-"

She cuts him off, surprised. "Wait, _Solomon Evans_ , as in the guy who runs _Evans Books and Music_? He's _here_?" She's seen his name printed in the newspaper as they interviewed him about the new store. When confronted by the reporter over the fact his superstore would likely hurt small, local businesses, the way he had blithely suggested that people prefer one stop shopping and the neighborhood would be better for the variety if the shops couldn't compete and were replaced had made her blood boil.

"You were the one talking to him, so I figured you knew that much, but-"

"I was certainly _not_ talking to Solomon Evans!" she declares with a bit too much force, nearly crushing a cracker. Why would she talk to the face of the monster currently threatening her mama's legacy?

"You most certainly were," Kid counters easily. "At the hors d'oeuvre table. Just now. Trust me, I knew the man in High School. Hard to forget someone with such striking features."

" _Oh_." The realization crashes into her like a sledgehammer, and she peels off the gloves angrily, grabs up the tray of seafood dip, and storms out of the kitchen. He's still at the table, picking at the cheese selection idly, so she slams down the dip platter in the spot next to it and says, breathless.

" _Just call me Soul?_ "

The man shrugs, a small lift of his shoulders beneath a grossly overpriced suit that probably costs more than she makes in several months, then shoves his hands in his pockets. She ignores that he looks almost sheepish.

"That's my name. And yes, we do have lollipops at the counter. The kids love it."

The noise she makes is devoid of language, raw frustration and anger that cannot be expressed in mere words.

"You-" she sputters.

"Me," he agrees with a shit eating smirk, before taking his hands from his pockets, taking up a small plate, and scooping up a heap of caviar onto a cracker to place on the plate. Caviar from the tray she'd just very carefully rearranged.

"That caviar is a _garnish!"_ Her indignation is so thick others must surely be staring, though she keeps her voice low. She ventures a quick glance, sees others caught up in their own conversations, and is relieved that they haven't made a scene. The last thing her little shop needs is gossip about how she got into it with Solomon Evans, and Maka is close, so close to regaining her sanity and just removing herself from the situation, but in the second she's looked away, he's started heaping the outer ring of caviar onto his plate in defiance like it's the main event.

"I bet you think you own the world, that it's all yours to take, right? With your cheap books and music and fancy, overpriced lattes. Well, you don't. I saw your new poster. _Shop Evans for more money in your_ _ **pocket**_ _?"_ She practically spits the last word, she's so angry. "Well, money isn't everything."

"Sure it isn't." His shrug is casual, dismissive. How had she ever thought his eyes warm? They're bloody, vicious as he scoffs at her. "Look, I know you think we're the evil empire, selling discount books like they're giant cans of olive oil at the local _Costco_ , but we also sell an experience, one where people can just _chill_. And people love that, our numbers are great. So yeah, we totally referenced a shop in our sign so tiny that I didn't even realize it existed until I stumbled into it with the kids. You caught me."

Maka might scream, but she's saved by Marie bustling up to swap out the spinach dip. She's wearing a smart black cocktail dress that is somehow spotless in spite of the fact that her pregnant belly is enormous and she's likely had a hand in every dish being served. Her matching black eyepatch is obscured by carefully arranged waves of blonde.

"Oh, Maka! I didn't realize you knew Soul!" She beams between them. "I suppose it makes sense, though, you both being in the book business. Oh, but-"

"Hi Marie," Maka cuts her off before she can ramble as she's prone to do when caught off guard. "I didn't realize you knew _Soul_ as well." She hopes her mother's oldest friend doesn't notice how tightly she's clinched her fist.

"Oh, of course! He comes into the shop nearly every morning."

"Best danish in town," he says, taking a heaping bite of caviar laden cracker for emphasis. The urge to use that clinched fist on his stupid, smug face is strong.

"Anyway!" Marie says, seemingly oblivious. "Kid has managed to find the kitchen, so if you wouldn't mind-"

"Of course, I'll take care of it." She hopes she doesn't sound too brusque, and fears she might actually sound relieved, neither option viable. "If you'll both excuse me."

With that, she hurries away, feeling like a confused, furious coward.

Because _how dare he._ Her feelings about people have never really been wrong before, but if he is bound up in her life just to put her out of business, well, she's ready to return to sender. She's definitely ready to return herself anywhere but here as she hurries once again to the kitchen to rescue Kid.

* * *

 _Why are some people so terrible?_

The message surprises him. Bookworm rarely has much bad to say about people, tending to see the good in others in ways he can only envy.

 _wish i knew,_ he fires back.

Soul has managed to sequester himself in the dark little hall near the elevator. He'll be leaving soon enough, his desire to be here even less after running into the owner of that little bookshop around the corner from the new store, but if he gets in too early he risks Wes being up his ass about it tomorrow. His brother definitely bribes the doorman for intel. Asshole.

 _Some people are such jerks I don't know what to do. I want to put them in their place but I just freeze up, get angry, and the words won't come. I hate it._

The frown is reflex. Someone has clearly gotten to her. Can't say he doesn't know the feeling. He also knows being an asshole inevitably comes with an annoyingly persistent sense of guilt.

 _eh its really not as satisfying as it sounds im pretty good at dishing out the shit when it comes down to it and i always feel like an ass after_

Well, not always. Most of his shit talk is aimed at Wes, which he never feels bad about. Other than that, he has to be pretty provoked to bother, and it's usually a real shit bag who has him rising to the occasion.

But then, there's Maka Albarn. Just now. He has the sneaking suspicion she hadn't deserved his callous, blunt dismissal, but he also never has been good at taking crap from anyone but his family-he gets his fill enough from them.

Honestly, he pretty much feels like shit remembering the look on her face.

 _I'd take the risk to set down the flaming dirtbag who belittled my entire existence._

The idea of someone provoking Bookworm raises his hackles, but he also knows her well enough to realize she can take care of herself, tongue tied or not.

 _well im sure ul get them eventually ill try to will some of my inner asshole ur way_

Hearing footsteps in the hall, he decides he's done for the night, the thought of having to speak to another human being daunting, so he pushes the button for the elevator and hopes it beats his fellow party goer.

Of course he has no such luck as the footsteps stop just shy of him. He hears a half gasp half growl and looks up from his phone to see his new companion is none other than Maka Albarn.

Well, fuck.

She says nothing, eyes glued to her phone, so he does the same. Ignoring a person's existence he can do, even if that person has fierce green eyes and could probably kill a man with her stare alone. He's not sure he's ever met another person quite so _intense_.

Part of him is drawn to that intensity. Part of him wishes they could be friends, for as much as there are very few people he's ever cared to befriend. Then again, not only is she the competition, but he's a self destructive asshole who had just completely shit on her in the middle of a party, so that's obviously out of the question.

Keeping his eyes pointedly on the ornate scarlet wallpaper in the hall, Soul is relieved as the elevator arrives with an old fashioned ding of the bell. Maka Albarn keeps her eyes on her phone as her fingers work, as he pushes the button for the lobby, so he's relieved to feel his own phone vibrate a few seconds later.

The awkward is painful at this point.

 _That settles it then. Next time I'll channel your asshole wavelength and verbally obliterate my opponent._

He can't help the little chuckle that escapes him and ignores the scoffing noise of the lift's other occupant.

As he thumbs out a reply he decides this must be the world's slowest elevator.

 _ur welcome to use my inner asshole whenever u see fit_

Finished, he keeps his eyes firmly to the bar above the doors marking their progress. Almost there.

Her small, stifled laugh startles him as she's furiously typing into her phone again.

The door dings, mercifully, and as she finishes her typing, she looks his way, challenge in her eyes, and the vibration of his phone rests ignored as he makes a faux gentlemanly gesture indicating she should go first.

An epic eye roll later and she's through the doors, not quite storming past him to the lobby with firm, quick steps.

His walk is deliberately slower, leisurely even. Soul waits until she's out the door, until he is too, until he hears her loud, exaggerated footsteps clomping down the sidewalk to quickly blend in with the ambient bustle of the city at night before checking his phone again.

 _I'll probably be taking you up on that soon._

It's followed up even as he's reading with:

 _Thanks for listening. Sometimes it helps just to know someone cares, even a little._

Soul knows just what she means, though he's not sure he can say it without looking like a sappy idiot. Instead, he offers a quick, _anytime bookworm,_ before lamenting the reality that if her struggle is to say what she means to the douchebags of the world, his is to say it to the people who actually matter. Annoyed with himself or maybe just feeling self destructive, because he knows her thoughts on this already and he's terrified she'll hate him in person either way, he adds:

 _maybe we can grab some coffee and i can actually listen_

It takes her too long to respond, and his chest constricts so painfully that he has to stop in the middle of the sidewalk just to breathe. People pass with glares, the moon shines down with its harsh, judgemental light barely visible in the shadow of a tall building, and his hand shakes after the phone finally vibrates.

He reads before fear can paralyze him.

 _Maybe._

One word, a world of promise. He can live with maybe.

With one word, his shit night transforms into a beacon of hope and Maka Albarn is long forgotten.


	3. Space Invaders

Maka keeps running into him.

She has decided that Soul Evans is like a plague, close and contagious-no matter where she goes, she can't seem to keep him off her radar.

Maybe she needs to move since he clearly lives nearby. Pretty soon she may not have a choice, and the realization makes her heart sink to the floor.

Business is not good. And with Crona now on payroll, things are even _worse_ -she's got another mouth to feed when she can't afford to feed _any_. Still, Crona is thriving at the shop away from their mother, and Maka can't be sorry for doing the right thing even if it's not _good business._

She keeps telling herself it'll pass, that the shiny newness of _Evans_ will wear off and the cheap plastic beneath the gilded veneer will show through enough that her little shop will resume its previous ascendency, _the_ place to buy children's books in Death City. Maka also tries to forget that _Evans_ exists, but it's damn nigh impossible when she has to pass by it on her walk to the shop each morning, when she's reminded of it on her off hours constantly because the man who runs it won't fall the hell out of her life where he rightfully belongs.

It's not like she has a choice about seeing him literally _everywhere_.

They're almost unreal, these chance encounters. Most of the time she ignores him and he ignores her, two people in line behind her at the ATM, in the produce aisle of the local grocery, on the street carrying a bag of guinea pig food for Hiro. If he didn't seem equally disgusted by the contact, she might think he was a stalker, but the way he flinches then scowls most of the time in her presence suggests he's as unwitting a victim of their chance encounters as she is. Still doesn't excuse him. Asshole.

A few times, there is no ignoring him. The worst is at _Marie's_ the week before Thanksgiving. Maka is frazzled because the shop isn't doing well, waiting to buy coffee and pastry for everyone to try to cover up just how _worried_ she is, when she notices him standing there, the person ahead of her in line.

He places his order, a large Americano and a blueberry muffin, and she's ready to ignore his existence as usual when Marie says, "You're in luck, that's the last one!"

" _What?"_ Maka doesn't mean to screech like that, really she doesn't, but she's been craving one of Tsu's muffins all morning and _hasn't he taken enough_? _Evans Books_ has swallowed local market share whole. The least she deserves is a damn muffin to console her.

"What _what?_ " He whirls, looking surprised. That she's spoken or that she's clearly pissed or that she's there at all, who knows. She doesn't particularly care either.

"That's _my_ muffin!" she grits out.

Soul Evans just blinks at her with his stupid sleepy red eyes before a smirk spreads. "Pretty sure I just paid for it, so."

"You never get blueberry. Or muffins. It's _always_ a bagel with lox. But today, with me behind you, you just _happen_ to buy the last muffin when I get one most of the time?"

This time the blink is longer, punctuated by a half shrug. "It sounded good." When she makes a choking-scoffing noise he adds, "Like you don't vary it up, Miss Veggie on Whole Wheat every third day."

It's her turn to blink. Because. _Because_ -

"Stalker!" she practically shrieks.

"Says the woman who just threw my regular order in my face." He shoves his hands in his pockets, his habitual slouch becoming even more pronounced.

He's right-it goes two ways. She's just shocked he noticed. And anyway, that's entirely beside the point since he's currently _stealing her muffin._

Marie looks baffled behind the counter, their scene entirely out of place in her quaint little cafe full of polished wood and country kitsch.

"Hey! You're holding up the line!" someone bellows from behind.

"Shut up!" she shrieks, then realizes it's in stereo-he's clearly joined in her ire. _As if he has that right!_

"Maka, hun, we can send you over a blueberry muffin when-" Marie's voice interrupts. Her godmother looks beyond concerned, but Maka is having none of it.

"That's not the point!" she hisses. "It's the _principle!"_

"Maka-"

"Hey-add a bagel with lox to my order, and a tall latte with a shot of caramel-" he shifts his gaze to Maka "-that _is_ what you're having, right?"

"I-yes?" Confusion washes through her along with mortification because _what?_

Marie rings up this last part and hands over the muffin-everything else will be ready at the end of the counter. The muffin is being shoved at her a second later, and Maka is so stunned she clutches it out of sheer reflex.

"You're welcome." Soul Evans smirks. "Clearly you need it more than I do."

"I-you-you can't just shush me with a _muffin!_ "

He shrugs again. "Worth a try." His order is up then, so he walks over to grab it, hands off the latte to her, then strolls out.

 _God_ what an _asshole_.

What is he trying to do, mortify her into oblivion?

Is it not enough to steal her business he has to invade her morning ritual and completely belittle her, too? To give her the muffin he bought out from under her and then buy her coffee on top of it-just what is he playing at?

No time to contemplate, she orders pastry for her employees, still seething.

Ten minutes later, she storms into the shop and Kid eyes her warily from his place at the counter where he is currently restocking the register. He hasn't been in in a week and a half, voluntarily trying to lighten her overhead expenses. She takes note he's growing out his hair and briefly wonders why-he prefers it short and neat-but is still too angry, too overwrought, to comment.

"Bad morning?"

"Why is Soul Evans such an _asshole?_ " she says as she places her ill gotten bounty down on the counter.

"I'd need more context to answer that," he replies after a slight pause. "But when I knew him, he was generally only abrasive when provoked. Mostly, he was just aloof. What happened?"

" _He bought my muffin!_ And then-"

Kid is patient. She takes a breath.

"He tried to _bribe_ me. He actually-gave me the muffin _and_ bought my coffee, _who does that?_ "

"He tried to bribe you-with a muffin?" Kid speaks slowly. Carefully. She feels like a scolded child and it just serves to fan the flames of her ire.

"He tried to bribe me with a muffin," she repeats, indignant. "And he's _everywhere_. And what I can't figure out is just what he's playing at, because why bother with the peon shop owner you are currently crushing under your overpriced Armani heel?"

"Maybe he's trying to be kind," Kid suggests as he begins rifling through the pastry bag, probably looking for the most symmetrical selection.

"Or _maybe_ he's trying to lull me into complacency to hasten things. He's _devious_."

Just call me Soul. Shyeah.

"Maybe," Kid says, voice mild. He finally decides on a very well crafted danish and disappears into the back office.

Clearly she's being placated, but Maka can't fault him for it because she also knows, somewhere deep down where she can barely reach just now, that her anger isn't exactly rational. Still, she refuses to owe that sharky bastard a thing. Nibbling her blood muffin, the product of bribery and Tsubaki's loving care, she resolves that next time she's ahead of him in line, she'll buy his order and the one behind too just to make it all square and pay it forward, even. She will clean the slate, will undermine the foul agenda her sweet, innocent muffin has been swept into, whatever that agenda might be.

Maka's not sure she wants to know, and as she enjoys the spoils, she rues the day Soul Evans first invaded her shop and her life.

* * *

Soul keeps running into her.

It had been mostly fine, up until today. Sure, she's a bit of an albatross-he still feels like shit about that party-but he's good at ignoring his demons most days, and she's small potatoes as demons go. He can deal, casual apathy and habitual boredom ruling the day.

What he hadn't been able to ignore was her flashing green eyes as she had confronted him over a _muffin_ of all things.

Really, he feels like he handled it well. He bought her a coffee and gave her the muffin that was rightfully his, didn't that make him the soul of generosity?

It should. But still, that anger haunts him.

The worst part is, he knows why she hates him. This isn't about deception as much as she'd clearly been peeved over it; he hadn't been honest at first, sure, but he hadn't lied either. No, it's the same story he's seen with every new store-where _Evans_ comes, local shops die. Sometimes it's slow and strangled, others it's quick and clean, but a tiny specialty shop can't compete with the price, comfort, and selection that his megastores offer. He's putting her out of business and he damn well knows it, so _of course_ she's furious.

In the past, it was just never quite so in his damned _face_.

He reminds himself continually that it's just business. Soul has nothing against Maka Albarn. In truth, he admires her-her drive, her resolve, the inferno that is her indomitable will. That will is so similar to Bookworm that it makes him wish things could be different. But they aren't, and business is business. Offer a superior product and let the free market decide, no shame in healthy competition.

Reminding himself doesn't stop the anger in her eyes from tormenting him.

Sitting in his office above the store, he watches as people file in, watches them leave with laden bags. It's a nice view, of the street below, of the city scape beyond. Business is good and there's not much for him to do today but message Bookworm. She's seemed really bleak lately, and he's worried, and that's enough to shove down thoughts of Maka Albarn.

Pressing send to share the 13th silly animal video of the day, he wonders if it helps at all, if _he_ helps at all. He keeps wondering if she'll take him up on his offer for coffee. He _wants_ to be there for her.

Harvar comes into his office, unannounced as usual. At least it's not Ox. Soul can't wait until the new year when he'll be able to, hopefully, send the man back his brother's way. Yes, his brother's assistant is methodical and has helped get this place running like a well oiled machine. He's also an anal retentive nightmare.

Harvar may be a bastion of dry humor at Soul's expense, but he's also not up his ass all day.

"You look sulky. Or more sulky than usual." Harv dumps a stack of papers on the desk in front of Soul. "Monthly purchase orders need your final approval."

"You can't just use the signature stamp?" Soul scowls. "And I'm not sulky."

"If you say so. You're the boss." How his assistant can manage to evoke a shrug so thoroughly without the motion is beyond him, though he's been accused of similar talents.

He sighs. Maybe if he actually voices his shit morning it'll stop looping through his thoughts.

"I got attacked for buying a muffin this morning."

If Harvar is surprised he doesn't show it, just folds his hands in front of him casually as he stands near the oversized desk.

"Go on."

"It was the last blueberry. It just sounded good-I mean, she orders them all the time. Didn't realize it was the last one and the woman _lost her shit._ "

"Because you got the last muffin." As usual, Harv's voice is as dry as the desert in a drought.

"Because I got the last muffin," Soul agrees, equally arid.

"So. Some rando flipped shit over a muffin?"'

"Not-exactly a rando?" God, why does he feel like a three year old with his hand caught in the cookie jar? "Remember that little book shop I told you I took the twins to? It was-the chick who owns it."

"Maka Albarn?"

Soul can't help his surprise. "Yeaaaah. How the fuck did you know?"

This time his assistant employs an actual shrug. "It's my job to keep tabs on local competition and her shop is legend in this area. Her mom was basically the neighborhood sweetheart, badass edition."

"Figures." Because in truth, Harv could be describing Maka Albarn herself.

"Okay, continue. She got pissed you bought the last blueberry. Then what?"

"Before or after she had a public meltdown?" Soul can't help the new sigh that follows as he rubs one temple.

"After."

"I gave her the muffin and bought her a coffee."

"So-to be clear-you gave _Maka Albarn_ the muffin she was pissed you snagged first, plus bought her coffee. What did she do then?"

"I dunno, seethed? Basically accused me of bribing her." He keeps his voice even, refusing to reinforce Harv's accusations of sulk.

"Didn't you?" Harv says, voice flat as ever. This snaps Soul to attention, but before he can protest, Harv adds, "You essentially bought her a hush hush muffin." Soul's shame reflects in the gleam of Harvar's sunglasses as realization hits. _Oh_. Well, shit. She _would_ take it that way, given everything. _Shit_.

Soul won't voice it, though, this realization, this new sizzle of guilt. "Whatever," he says instead, because really, he shouldn't be so bothered over the irrational ire of one small shop owner. "Anything else?"

"One thing." The way he says it, overly casual instead of his normally flat tone, has Soul's hackles up instantly. Whatever it is, it's nothing good. "Your parents are going to Cancun over Thanksgiving."

"Yeah, so?" This isn't news and he knows Harv knows it.

" _So_ , your brother made alternate plans. You'll be dining, along with your brother and his fiancé, with Thanatos Kachadoorian the Third."

And there it is, the kick in the teeth. He refuses to show it. "Thanatos Kachadoorian? Huh. Didn't realize he was friends with Wes."

"I'm unaware of the connection. Something to do with Miss Thompson."

"I know you guys go out for beers, you can call her Liz." Because trivial ribbing is better than mounting anxiety. Time enough for that when Harv leaves.

"I can." Another verbal shrug and the ringing implication of the unspoken _but I won't._

Soul doesn't bother with an answer, just lets his assistant do whatever it is he does when he's not giving him shit or piling his desk with paperwork and his calendar with crippling social obligations.

The idea of a Thanksgiving in a strange place amidst strange people shoves any and all concern for Maka Albarn off his radar. Life does have a way of ensuring his little victories are generally pyrrhic.

* * *

 _Why is he here?_

The thought plays in loop after she walks into Kid's ridiculously oversized apartment and catches stark white-it's hard to miss amongst all the orange, the product of Patti's zeal for holiday decorating. Soul Evans looks equally stunned as they make brief eye contact, and Maka is quick to break it off, excusing herself to the kitchen under the pretext of chilling the bottle of wine she's brought, but the thought remains. Sure, Kid has mentioned he knew him in high school, but there had been no indication they were at all well acquainted in the here and now.

And yet, there he stands in the middle of the living room, stark against all the fall brightness in an overpriced shirt and slacks, probably hogging all the best garnish.

Well, hell, is it too late to back out? She knows it is, but that doesn't mean she's _happy_ about it.

It's definitely a full house tonight. Thanksgiving is the one holiday they always spend together, her little found family. Tsubaki and Marie are already bustling around the kitchen, the smells wafting her way screaming sheer deliciousness. Kid usually hosts because he's got the biggest place, but no one but Marie and Tsu are ever allowed to touch the food. Maka puts her offering in the wine fridge and lets her mind dwell on how Kid works for her and affords a wine fridge rather than on the sanctuary invading asshole in the other room. She itches to message her frustration to PMan, who had already bitched about being dragged somewhere against his will with most of his family out of town, but restrains herself. They'd banned from the festivities any and all electronic bullshit several years ago because this is supposed to be a day to share with the people you care for, and so she will adhere, even if one of the people she cares for is only available that particular way.

Still, she won't break a promise, so she makes her way to a counter and pours herself a glass from an open bottle of wine before turning her attention to Marie and Tsubaki.

"Do you guys need-"

"No!" They both pause what they're doing long enough to turn in unison.

Burning the carrots once, five years ago, because she had gotten distracted by Blake's limerick contest really shouldn't ban her from the Thanksgiving kitchen for life. Annoyed that her one possibility for an out has-not unexpectedly-been snatched away, she mumbles, "Just trying to help," before smoothing her gauzy green dress and making her way out the door, chin held high.

Marie and Tsu have long since returned to cooking, but Blake is on her the moment she hits the living room.

"Yo, pigtails!" he practically shouts, slinging an arm around her shoulders. He looks ridiculous in his sweater embroidered with a turkey flexing biologically impossible wing biceps. How he had obtained it, Maka can't guess, but she suspects that either Patti has taken up knitting or some serious cajoling of the far too kind Tsubaki had been involved. As much as both Blake and Tsu are in her small circle of closest friends, she still, even years later, can't quite fathom the weird depths of their long standing friendship.

"Never fear, your god is here!" he bellows, before lowering his voice to conspiratorial levels. Well, conspiratorial for Blake-conversational for any other sane, rational human being. "Though I hear you've been keeping shit from the great _me_."

Maka pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment and sighs because _she's in no mood_ , before steering her "god" to a corner since she has zero clue what horrors might come out of her oldest friend's mouth.

"Seriously, Maks," he says in a stage whisper. "Since when are you all sleeping with the enemy?"

" _What_ are you on about?"

"That Evans dude. Marie said you guys are buds. Like, dude, since when do you even know this prick and why would you-"

"I don't know him and we certainly aren't _buds_." She bristles at the thought, his blasé dismissal of her _tiny_ shop still festering, salt in the potentially mortal wound his superstore continues to inflict. "He came into the shop awhile ago and I had no idea who he was, then I ran into him at Azusa's party a few weeks back and Marie assumed. He's an asshole and I hope he drowns in his own snark."

"Awww, that sounds painful." Patti Thompson has an oversized stein of some potable or another in one hand. Given the haze in her bright blue eyes, Maka ventures a guess it isn't her first. "Now. Who do I have ta kill? Who's being a shithead to my Maks?"

" _No one,_ " Maka hisses as Blake says, "that Evans douche."

Maka expects a few things at Blake's words, but to see a thoughtful frown appear is not among them. Neither is a look Patti wears often and Maka isn't sure she's ever seen them together at the same time on the generally bubbly blonde.

" _Which_ Evans douche?"

"Uhhh there's more than one?" Blake looks shocked. Maka vaguely recalls there _are_ two Evans sons, but she's surprised that Patti is also aware of this.

Mercifully, Patti addresses Blake. Maka wishes she could extricate herself from this unpleasantness entirely, but fears it will turn into a scene if she tries.

"'Course there is, silly. There's sis's fiancé and then there's his brother."

This part _is_ news. Liz is engaged to an _Evans_? Well, that should make for a pleasant wedding when the time comes. Maka may not be close to Liz, but they are friendly enough. She'll be invited. Lucky her.

"Which one is Liz's fiancé?" Maka doesn't really care, but it's probably best to know what she'll be dealing with. Or possibly avoiding.

"Wes!" Patti laughs maniacally at that. "Can you imagine Sis with Soul? She'd have shanked him by the second date-Sis can't stand all that pretentious hipster emo crap."

"I-" Maka blinks, shakes her head. She knows nothing about Wes Evans, and little more about his brother.

"Anyway, since you didn't even know Wes is Liz's boy toy, I'm guessing Soul gave you shit. He's kinda good at that, likes to put on that _don't even look at me_ face, but he's actually a softie underneath. Giant sharky marshmallow with a teddy bear center."

"If you-say so," Maka manages as Blake guffaws loudly beside her. She takes a swig of her wine, her eyes catching on white and moving to the star of their conversation involuntarily. He's parked at the hor d'oeuvre table, much as he had been a few weeks back, though he is picking at the shrimp. Apparently, he'd gotten his fill of garnish before. Their eyes meet briefly, his widen for an instant and she looks away, face inexplicably hot, before she can see more.

"Whatever." Blake shrugs it off as easily as he does most things. "Enough about the local asshat, witness my full godliness!"

A phone is shoved in her face, a picture of Blake oiled and flexing in a tiny leopard g string displayed prominently. Maka had forgotten he had a bodybuilding thing last weekend, so her penance for that dereliction in the duties of friendship is to be regaled with detailed photos of his every muscle.

She reminds herself to set his next competition in her phone calendar so she at least remembers to wish him luck and like a few photos on Instagram-no way she subjects herself to the testosterone overload of actually attending-and resigns herself to a good half hour of TMI photos of her nearest, dearest friend.

The bonus is, occupied fully by Blake, there's zero chance of having to interact with Soul Evans, and for that, she's grateful. By the time that ordeal is done, however, the wine has gone through her and she has to go to the bathroom. She uses the respite to shoot PMan a brief:

 _Happy Thanksgiving! May your personal suffering be brief since I know how you hate parties._

Perhaps she'd lingered a sliver too long in the bathroom hoping for a reply because by the time she's out, everyone is seated for dinner.

There's one seat open at the table next to Tsu, so Maka makes her way towards it-and then notices white.

No. _Hell no._ No way she spends her night next to Solomon Evans, corporate asshole and bane of her little shop's existence.

Only-she's not going to embarrass Kid who is hosting, or Liz who is here with her fiancé, the brother of said corporate asshole, part of the same evil empire, so she keeps going. No choice, really.

When he stands, then pulls out the empty chair, expression unreadable, she blinks, then murmurs a belated, "thanks," as she sits. He retakes his seat, and then, everyone in place, Kid thanks them all for coming, thanks Marie and Tsubaki for cooking, and declares open season on the food.

Mercifully, passing around laden dishes occupies the next while, but as eating begins, so does conversation. She wants to turn to Tsubaki, but she's deep in conversation with Mifune about their coming trip to Japan for their nuptials, and unfortunately, the man next to Soul is slightly turned away towards Liz on his other side. She doesn't get a good look, but since he's the only unknown party in the room this must be Wes Evans.

That leaves both of them sitting in silence as they eat, though the rest of the room is abuzz with conversation and it's _awkward_. Maka can't take it.

"The turkey is delicious," she comments casually, filling the weird pocket of silence amidst the chatter. Polite. She can do polite for the half an hour it takes to get through dinner, then avoid him like the plague he is for the rest of the night.

"Yeah, 's good. Good stuffing, too. And whatever this green stuff is." He pokes at some greens with a fork idly. She keeps her gaze on his hands because his face will just drag up anger she doesn't need right now.

"Kale," Maka fills in. "Sautéed with aromatics. It's my favorite, too. Tsubaki's great with sides."

"Ah, yeah. Though honestly, I could have skipped it all for more time with the sushi."

This time, she does look at him. His face is as impassive as before. Is the only expression he knows bored apathy?

But no. He'd smiled at her in the shop a few times. Maka does not allow herself to recall he has a nice smile, oddly sharp teeth and all.

The disgust that currently dominates her features is habitual. "You _would_." She doesn't mean to be flippant, really she doesn't, but raw fish is one of those few things that can trigger an automatic response of _hell no._

"I would," he agrees casually before indulging in a heaping bite of stuffing. "Gladly."

Taking a swig of wine since she isn't sure what else to say, Maka follows it up with a bite of kale, chewing slowly. She hadn't wanted to talk to him to begin with, knowing that her primal urge is to tell him off. Business is not good and it's _all his fault_ , this sneaky, snarky, corporate shark. No wonder his teeth are so sharp.

This feels like fraternizing with the enemy and she hates it.

"Maybe you can shovel in more garnish while you're at it." So much for polite. Maka rues her impulsivity and occasional difficulty managing her own feelings, particularly when she has a little wine in her-but also relishes his look of disgruntled surprise.

"To get you going? Maybe." He shrugs. "I mean, I can see enjoying caviar is right below eating raw fish, buying muffins, and running a multimillion dollar retail operation on Maka Albarn's list of cardinal sins, so I may as well hit the one dimensional super villain trifecta."

"You- _you_ -" her mouth searches for the words her brain is too stunned to find because _what?_ She tries to channel PMan, but the words won't come. Before she can even begin to end her useless gaping, a loud gasp at the end of the table ends it for her, and any thoughts of the unpleasantness she's currently mired herself in flees in the face sheer, unadulterated _fear_ as she watches Marie stand, looking shocked.

"Oh my-Frank! It's-we need to go _now!_ "

Maka's eyes are riveted to the end of the table, the crowded room going silent as Frank Stein blinks once, twice at his wife and simply nods.

"Of course." He stands himself, cool as a sheet of ice in the arctic, and takes her hand. Marie doesn't let him lead her away quiet yet, sweeping her gaze down the table. She's calmer now, perhaps her husband's constant implacability rubbing off on her.

"I'm so sorry, but we have to go, my water just broke. Nothing to panic over, you should all enjoy your dinner, so if you don't mind finishing up, Tsu-" her gaze flicks to the tall Japanese woman on the other side of Maka, who nods and says, "Of course," though she looks more than a little dazed.

"I'll be in touch," Marie finishes. "Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!" She offers a sheepish little wave, as if she has something to be embarrassed over, and then she's being led through the door by her tall, pale husband as the collective ignores the fact the bottom of her cheerful floral dress is now drenched. Maka knows she's in good hands, knows 38 weeks is a normal time for labor, knows it's nothing to panic over, but fear still wells up from somewhere deep. The occupants of the table blink silently after the now fled couple before the room erupts in chaos.

Maka herself still sits stunned, not even Crona's mournful wail of "I don't know how to deal with this"-or her impulse to comfort her friend who must be so confused after all they've been through-can break her haze of terror. It takes a minute, but finally, a loud, high voice cuts through the cacophony and her own irrational fear.

" ** _Everyone shut the hell up and eat!_** " Patti stands on her chair, glaring down at all of them. "If Marie says eat and she'll be in touch, then that's just what we're gonna do, got it?"

Gulps and nods go around the table and Maka herself shoves in a bite of kale because she needs to do _something_. She knows was angry only moments before, but any feelings Soul Evans has the power to provoke have fled with the Steins.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after shoveling down her dinner, Maka is out the door, excuses made. At least half the room knows just where she's going and why, want to be there themselves, but no one else budges. Maka is the goddaughter and survivor-it's her place, no one else's.

Biting her lip, she's paused at the doorstep of the building, pacing. She walks most places, takes public transit the rest of the time, but the hospital isn't close-Marie has chosen the university hospital across town to have the baby. Walking will take too long, and the subways only run sporadically on the holiday. _She needs to get there._

Pacing and fretting is a waste of her time, but it's all she knows how to do just now. Fear is crippling and she _hates_ it.

She ignores the door behind her, the footsteps. Her mind works uselessly and she feels just as helpless as she had back then, fifteen and scared, praying to gods who would never listen to help, _please_. Just help. Maka hates hospitals but she needs to be there, needs to make sure, can't lose anyone else, can't lose Marie like she'd lost her mama, but she doesn't know _how_ and it's just stupid.

There's a clearing of the throat behind her. She ignores that too, just as she'd ignored the footsteps, just as she ignores the sound of a car pulling to the curb. None of it has anything to do with her and _she needs to figure this out._ Maybe she should just walk after all.

"Ordered you an Uber," a low, gruff voice interrupts her internal fretting. "University hospital, Liz said."

Her eyes move to the source of the voice. Soul _fucking_ Evans, of course, looking as bored with life as ever. Even now he can't leave her alone, her personal virus.

Wait, had he said-

Maka swivels her head and the driver of the nondescript little Honda is looking at her expectantly.

 _Oh_.

"Thanks," she manages, fear momentarily replaced by surprise.

"Sure." Soul Evans shrugs off her stunned gratitude so she gets in the car, nothing more to say.

Her mind doesn't have energy to linger on _why_ he's her savior in that moment-probably just eager to be rid of her-fear chokes her too thoroughly.

Later, when all is well, when the baby is born and everyone is safe, she'll wonder, but for now, Soul Evans is the furthest thing from her mind as his Uber speeds her off to watch the birth of her godsister.


	4. To the Mattresses

He really wishes Patti would keep her intel to herself.

"So now she's thinking about doing some internet sales to, ya know, supplement income, but Kiddo doesn't think it'll put a dent." She takes a heaping bite of pasta and chews, then looks pointedly towards Soul. "You should stop in, maybe give her some pointers."

It's the weekly family dinner sans his parents, who are off again to some exotic locale or another as they are at least half the time. He almost wishes they were here-Liz generally only has Patti come when they aren't around, and Patti is on her best behavior in their presence in any case. Soul still isn't sure how she wrangles her sister into compliance, but it's not like he's known either of them long enough to entirely grasp their odd little family dynamic.

"Yeah, sure she'd love my help," Soul says, scoffing openly. He scowls down at the overwrought china heaped high with shrimp scampi over noodles as if he could will away what's surely coming.

Liz snorts across the table, but Wes has a rather suspicious looking grin Soul pointedly ignores. Doesn't stop Wes from voicing the thought that promoted it, though.

"Oh, I don't know, little brother, you two were having a rather animated conversation over Thanksgiving dinner, and it is sort of your fault her shop is struggling. It wouldn't hurt you to be helpful."

This earns an eye roll to end all eyerolls. "You're just as much an Evans as I am. Feel free to stop in and help the competition."

"Ah, retail is your thing, and having the flagship in Death City was your baby. Don't put this one on me." His innocent look fools exactly no one. Soul is just tired of getting shit for doing his damn job.

"It's not on _anyone_. It's business, and she's not my problem." Soul brushes it aside, done with this crap, and the rest must read his mood because they drop it in favor of discussing the approaching holiday.

He will admit to exactly no one that his discomfort is at least 70% guilt, especially after his last conversation with Bookworm.

As dinner wraps up, he excuses himself and hides in the bathroom, eager to get back to said conversation. His brother et al are well enough used to his antisocial ways to leave him be, and he opens his phone to review the conversation as he seats himself on the closed toilet seat.

She'd been so short in her responses this morning, so economical, that he'd finally asked-

w _hat's wrong?_

 _Nothing. Everything. Ugh._

 _maybe i can help? im pretty good at advice_

 _I don't think anyone can help. My mom maybe would have known what to do, but I have no idea._

 _try me_

 _It's just my business is in trouble and I've done everything I can think of to fix it and it's still a mess. I don't know what to do and I always know what to do._

 _well ur in luck business is one thing i dont suck at. whats ur business?_

 _No specifics, remember?_

 _that makes it harder to give advice but not knowing what u do id say u need to go to the mattresses_

 _I need to what? I don't understand. I don't own a mattress store!_

 _no i mean like the godfather when things get bad u go to the mattresses business is war and if ur losing u fight harder. its not personal its business remind urself of that when ur worried about hurting feelings cause i know u worry but ur also the strongest person i know. u can do this so do this. fight. fight to the death_

His eyes read that message and he wonders if he'd upset her because she hadn't responded just then and he'd added _i gotta go will talk more l8r_

There's a new message now, just below his last, time stamped ten minutes later:

 _Sorry, lost service. I'll go to the mattresses._

Relief floods him as he sees the response, though it can't wash away the guilt that clings like static. Soul may not be her enemy, her big bad problem, but he's certainly the one causing grief for plenty. He shoves the guilt away as he does so often, just happy to be able to help here and now when it matters and hoping he actually has.

* * *

Maka is about to press send when the little bell above the door chimes merrily, drawing her eyes. The store is decked out for Christmas, the cheer that invades her sight cloying against an otherwise empty store. Five days before Christmas at noon and this is only the 5th customer of the day.

Business is not good.

And it's not even a customer. She feels sick as Patti comes in, mailbag in hand that is surely full of bills she really can't afford to pay.

"Hey Pat." Maka forces cheer, unwilling to spread her dark mood beyond the confines of her own twisted worry.

She hears footsteps from the stockroom and Crona comes bustling out, eager to be helpful. Maka had set them to shelving the recently arrived new stock she really can't afford. While they still cower at the sight of a well dressed woman, they've come a long way in the weeks since leaving their mother's flower shop behind and, under the tutelage of so many who care so much and a well recommended therapist, they are thriving.

"P-Patti!" They exclaim happily, footsteps quickening as they see who has come in. As they approach the mail carrier, their steps falter. They want a hug, but asking is difficult. Thriving is relative, and years of abuse, manipulation, and gaslighting at the hands of their mother can't be completely overcome. Physical affection is something they both crave and fear.

"Bring it in!" Pat grins, opening her arms wide. Crona goes in for a cautious side hug but Patti wraps her arms around her friend and roommate in a bear hug. "I forgot ya work today! Did Kid bring ya?"

"N-no, walked myself!"

Their hug ended, Patti exclaims, "Crona, that's great!" and pats her friend on the arm as both approach the counter. Maka's eyes are assaulted as they do. Pat wears her normal mail carrier uniform, though she's added a strictly non regulation Santa hat over her own blue uniform cap-but Crona-Crona is decked out in candy cane striped leggings, the hideous Kittens in Space Christmas sweater Patti had recently gifted them, and a tree hat complete with blinking lights that clashes badly with their lavender hair dye, a gift from Blake. Her brain feels practically violated by so much visual cheer when her mood is so dark, but she smiles anyway.

"You've got mail!" Patti announces happily. Maka thanks her half heartedly as she places the ominously large pile on the counter. Part of the girth is a large envelope from the company that handles her payroll she can ill afford. Kid has broached the subject of letting him handle it and she's decided to agree when she sees him next tomorrow.

Grabbing up the thick payroll envelope, she hands Crona their fourth ever paycheck and their eyes light up. "Oh! Thank you so much!" Maka has had to cut back hours all around recently, so the amount is a pittance and she feels like a heel. Still, for a person who had worked for their mother for free all their life, it must seem like a small fortune. Crona had run the flower shop on their own, the work horse of Medusa Gorgon's wedding planning business. In actuality, the fact Maka's own shop is so well decked out for the holidays is all due to her latest employee-Crona has a well honed eye for visual aesthetics. Her blood boils anew at what their own mother has done to them, but that's in the past. She and Patti and Kid and the rest have all made sure it's behind them, and it does no good to show her rage.

Anyway, such rage is best channeled into her current project.

"Watcha doin'?" Pat thumbs at the laptop as Maka takes it back up, mail handled.

"Going to the mattresses," she says with more vigor than she can actually muster.

"Oh! I didn't realize ya like _The Godfather!"_

"Um-not exactly? It was advice from a friend."

Pat leans over the counter so far she might fall over the other side, neck twisted oddly to sneak a peek. Maka turns it towards her so she can resume a more natural position. Not only does she want to keep her friend whole, but she really can't afford the insurance liability.

"Your friend's cagey, this is great." Patti looks impressed and Maka can't help her light blush.

"Thanks, I wrote it." At the puzzled look, she adds, "He just told me I should fight. Go to the mattresses."

"Oh-ho! A _guy_ friend!" And she knows Pat knows, then and there, it's someone new, because if it were Blake or Kid or even Mifune or Stein, she would have just named them. She curses herself for the slip-she's kept this secret so well for so long. Before she can respond, Pat waggles her eyebrows. "You and Soul finally speaking?"

"Soul _Evans_? Gods no, why would he help me fight his own business?"

The second eyebrow waggle is completely uncalled for and she scowls.

"Just _no_." Without patience left to stammer out a lie, Maka adds, "It's just a guy I talk to online, no big deal-stop looking at me that way, it's not _like that."_

"But you want it to be."

It's not a question, and Maka colors violently as Patti squeals and Crona makes an odd noise of surprise.

"Maybe, shut up." She mutters the last part and shakes her head. "Anyway, I don't even _know him_ so it doesn't matter."

Crona nods assent, clearly unhappy, though why Maka can't say. Perhaps it's too much to wrap their head around, the idea of a virtual friend when flesh and blood friends are still something they're learning to navigate. Whatever the case, Maka doesn't want to cause them distress, never mind she has zero desire to discuss her relationship with PMan now or _ever_.

"We should talk about something else." Maka shifts her eyes to Crona meaningfully, who is currently picking at their ugly sweater with far too much attention, half a step from muttering to themselves.

"Well, speaking of Soul, he bought a new set of wheels-"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Maka sighs. She'd rather go back to the awkward subject of PMan than this. Why Patti continually feels the need to update her about Soul _bloody_ Evans she can't say, something about him getting her an Uber having stuck with Pat, but whatever the case, Maka wishes she would stop already because the last person whose new _any_ thing she wants to hear about is her corporate nemesis.

"I'm sure he can afford whatever wheels strike his fancy." She recalls that PMan had been excited to tell her about his new motorcycle last week. The irony that her best friend and worst enemy have both purchased some variety of motor vehicle recently isn't lost on her, but she really has no desire to compare the two, so she doesn't. "Any changes you'd make to the letter?"

Patti shrugs. "Looks good to me. Bet it'll knock 'em dead. You should ask Kiddo anyway, fancy words are more his deal." She starts walking backward, but not before taking a mint from the complimentary candy dish near the register and popping it in her mouth. "Anyways, I've gotta go. Kim gets cranky when I'm late with the mail. Later!"

With that she's out the door, and Maka is left with her letter. Without further thought she presses send-she's tired of looking at it, and it's past time she took action, come what may.

* * *

His eyes scan the last paragraph, bile welling in his throat.

The Letter to the Editor heard round the city is nothing short of a scathing indictment and Soul doesn't know if he should feel angry or contrite.

 _I've been honored to watch your children grow, honored to be a part of your lives as my mother was before me, but_ Pocket Full of Posies _is falling to the cold cash cow of_ Evans Books _like so many before us. There is no soul within such a Goliath, not like in the small places and spaces, but it's not too late to make sure we never lose the heart of our city._

He reads the last bit aloud, disgust overwhelming.

"We all can boycott _Evans_ , we all can support the local shops in Death City, and maybe, just maybe, by saving small businesses like mine-"

"-you can save not only the soul of this city but your own soul as well." A dry voice finishes for him, Harvar having quietly entered the room at some point during his read aloud. Soul scowls at his assistant who offers an unapologetic little shrug.

"You have to admit she has a way with words," he offers, and Soul's scowl deepens as he shifts his gaze to his office window and the protest below. News trucks are gathering, the circus only expanding. They really don't need this three fucking days before Christmas.

The faint chant of "Boycott _Evans_ , save your soul!" reaches his ears and he sighs.

"The news stations are asking for an interview," Harv says from behind him. "Ox is stalling, but this only gets worse if you don't say _something_. She's already given an interview, by the way."

Soul pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, because there's nothing he hates more than the spotlight. His phone vibrates, and hope it might be from Bookworm is instantly quashed. It's a two word text from his mom and he feels like as big a fuck up as ever lived.

 _Fix it,_ it reads.

As if he _can_.

"Fine." He lets out a long breath. "Have Ox get the conference room ready, I'll give the damn vultures what they want."

Even if, as Maka Albarn has so eloquently put it, it costs him his soul.

He's pretty sure he lost that years ago, so he tries and fails not to let it bother him.

* * *

He takes a swig of beer so warm and cheap it tastes like piss as he frowns up at the television. Soul let Killik talk him into going out, and when they saw the crowd at the little jazz club he's been wanting to try, he had steered them into a nearby bar instead. Mistake, that. It's dark, dingy, and more than mildly disgusting.

Still, he's in no mood for a crowd and this place is such a dive it's nearly empty, so he's fine with the trade off just now. Unfortunately, the guilt of Harv and Killik wasting prime babysitter time away from the twins makes him feel like the complete jackass he so clearly is, and he silently vows to take the kids as penance or maybe solace sometime soon.

"Turn it up," he says suddenly, because Maka Albarn's face currently fills the cheap flatscreen, but her words elude him. The bartender, dirty looking guy with a nose bar and an attitude, chucks him the remote with a grunt, and Soul has to do some hard button mashing on the cheap, aging piece of junk to get the volume up enough to hear.

"...I once heard him compare books to vats of olive oil at the Costco-is that really the type of establishment we want in our city?" Her green eyes stare his way accusingly before the shot returns to the news desk.

Killik throws him a look. "You never mentioned she was hot." When Soul doesn't respond, he adds, thinking better of it. "Probably just a trick of the camera."

Soul shrugs. "Nah, she's hot. A pain in the ass, but yeah."

"Pretty sure she's earned the right to be a pain in the ass seeing as you're destroying her livelihood and tried to buy her silence with a muffin," Harv deadpans.

Killik looks about to say something when the screen then flashes to Soul in a clip from his press conference earlier in the day.

"Yeah, I sell cheap books, sue me," he hears himself say, and then the screen flashes back to the news desk and Soul practically growls.

" _What the actual fuck_?"

"You said that?" Killik is raising a skeptical eyebrow his way.

"Well, yeah? But I also said we're awesome and help more people afford books and have great selection and-"

"Maybe you should have offered free muffins," Harv cuts in. Killik snorts, Soul glares, and Harv looks at unapologetic as ever.

"Did you really bribe her with a muffin?"

"No," Soul says at the same time Harv says, "Yes."

"And coffee," Harv adds helpfully.

"And coffee," Soul admits with a sigh.

"Dude, no wonder she hates you."

His only answer is to take another swig of warm beer, the thought that all the hatred she can muster is unlikely to save her shop little consolation.

* * *

Her latest message surprises him.

 _Do you remember when you asked me about being on the wrong path? I think I might be. Nothing is going according to plan anymore._

Soul frowns at his phone, willing away whatever has her so tied in knots. Bookworm deserves to be happy, and if one thing has become clear to him in recent weeks, it's that whatever is going on with her professional life has her in a tailspin.

 _plans r overrated u should do wut feels right_

Not that he ever has.

He feels a bit like a fraud as he presses send from the luxury of his trust fund provided penthouse, his feet kicked up on the overpriced Italian leather ottoman/coffee table in the middle of his TV room. There's some old flick up on the oversized flatscreen that takes up one wall about Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan finding love via internet. It suits his mood or maybe his wishes better than the news just now, though he would never tell a soul of his secret soft spot for cheesy romcoms on pain of death, which seems preferable to the mass quantities of shit he'd get from all and sundry were that tidbit to ever come out. He has an image to maintain, or at minimum, bullshit to avoid.

 _I don't know what that is anymore. How did you know?_

The truth is he doesn't, and he thinks he's probably walking the wrong path most days. Sometimes, he even thinks about stepping off of it, more often lately than ever. He'd never wanted to ruin lives, and yet the realization he does, he _has_ , hits hard. Green eyes haunt him.

Soul Evans is a goddamn fraud, but Pianoman doesn't have to be.

 _i don't. never have. maybe were both on the wrong path_

Her response takes a moment.

 _So what do we do about it?_

 _i wish i knew_

And he does, because he has no answers. Still, Killik keeps nudging him towards a weekly gig at a local dive, and he's starting to wonder if he shouldn't just go for it.

 _but maybe we can figure it out together_

He adds it on a whim because he's tired of being a fraud.

Her simple _maybe_ is reason enough to try.

* * *

Christmas Eve has been quiet, eerily so, and they've just set the closed sign, their hours limited for the holiday.

Kid is tallying receipts, working his ledger like a pro. She hopes his frown is one of concentration.

They're all there-Crona, Blake, even her papa. He's back from a long modeling stint in Madrid, back for the holidays, and has insisted on helping with the shop.

Maka would rather he'd stayed away-the eyesearing red of his hair and stench of his expensive cologne turn her stomach, and she's in no mood to deal with the man who had only seen fit to enter her life after her mother was gone, not today, this week, month, year-but she hadn't had the energy or heart for a scene, so here he is.

"Well?" She can't help her impatience. She'd gone to the mattresses, so surely, _surely_ -

"No difference," Kid sighs out, looking as worn as she feels.

"How is that even _possible?_ Days of protests, all those people-"

"They bought signs, not books," Kid says gently. She briefly notes Blake is uncharacteristically silent, hand squeezing Kid's shoulder in some show of moral support. It feels like she's being coddled and she hates it, hates _this_.

Maka swallows the lump in her throat and nods, barely noticing that her papa is squeezing her own shoulder soothingly.

"Okay, well, we'll figure it out later. Marie is expecting us in an hour. Lets go."

It feels like giving up and maybe it is, but she'll be damned if she won't celebrate her mama's favorite holiday with all she's got.

The shop will keep for a few days until then.

* * *

It's New Years Eve and she realizes she has to do something soon, but answers elude her.

Still, life must go on. Maka just can't believe that living currently involves sharing air space with one Solomon Evans _yet again_.

This year, they are celebrating New Year's Eve with Marie, who has invited the Evans brothers because Liz is family and she wants her there, so that makes them family too in her mind.

The fact Tsubaki and Mifune are off in Japan for their nuptials and honeymoon probably doesn't help things. Sure, they intend to hold a vow renewal and reception for their American friends on their first anniversary, but in the here and now, they are missed.

And so, the Evans brothers had come.

Maka wants to ask her godmother if family put each other out of business, but manages to restrain the unkind impulse-Marie is still operating under the delusion the protests helped and Maka doesn't have the heart to tell her otherwise, not just now.

She'd spent much of the evening minding baby Shelly, giving her godmom a much needed break while avoiding a certain white haired shark who seemed just as content to be avoided. Then, 15 minutes ago, Shelly had started screaming bloody murder-she was hungry which meant she needed Marie-so Maka has absconded off to the small balcony patio to avoid any possibility of having to talk to either Evans. Liz's fiancé might not be head of retail, might not have deceived her like his brother had, might even seem fairly charming, but he is just as much an Evans as his little brother, and therefore, just as culpable when it comes down to it. And anyway, after labor gate cut Thanksgiving short, no one seems to recall that they haven't officially been introduced so he was easy enough to avoid.

Truth be told, she's not much in a frame of mind to interact with anyone, let alone the men who have been responsible for destroying her life.

The balcony is blissfully empty in the chill of the desert winter night, and Maka has taken the opportunity to come out and hopefully message her favorite person, the only person she cares to talk to just now.

The loneliness of the night is cutting. She'd noticed Kid and Star holding hands earlier, sees how happy Stein and Marie are with Shelly, hell, even sees the joy writ large on Wes Evans' face as his fiancé leans in to whisper something in his ear, Maka she wonders what she's given up for the shop that's about to fail. But she's never felt that way, never wanted that with anyone, not really, so maybe all she's given up is nothing and she's about to lose everything she ever held dear. The shop is her spouse/baby/lover and she doesn't know who she is without it.

And then there's PMan. And maybe she does feel that way after all, and maybe with her life crashing down around her ears all this anonymity is silly. She knows he wants to meet her, wants to help her.

Maybe it's time to let him.

Her fingers tremble as she types the message. Then again, maybe this is a mistake. Maka is gambling the one thing she has left to lose and she knows it, but she's also desperate. She needs what he offers, his support, unconditional, needs it desperately, so she lets shaky fingers type the words.

 _Do you still want to meet?_

Moments pass or a lifetime, the city lights spread out below like a reminder of how much life is around her, and yet, how alone she remains amidst it all.

She clutches the phone tightly in one hand, waiting waiting _waiting as_ her other hand tangles in the fabric of the burgundy dress she wears, a Christmas gift from Liz and Patti.

The world yet moves but her heart is still. She can't breathe, feels like she might suffocate as she sits in this dark corner, sits and waits for one not-stranger to decide.

The door to the balcony opens and shuts. Dark suit, white hair, he reaches the edge and looks out at the city. He doesn't notice her and she's grateful for that much, too occupied with the city below or the phone in his hand or the countdown coming from the other room.

His phone casts his features in an eerie light. Soul Evans is almost preternaturally good looking, standing there as he turns his back to the cityscape to type something into his phone. Looks and money, but for a man named Soul, he seems to have lost his somewhere along the way.

Probably she's being unfair-his legacy is Evans, Inc., and he's only followed that as she has- but irritation that of all people he's the one to invade her solitude has her fuming in her fear. Maka wishes she could take back the message, is about to type that she's kidding when she feels her phone vibrate in her hand. She clutches it tightly, waits an instant, then lets herself read what is surely his response.

All at once, Soul Evans takes in a sharp breath, noticing her presence as her phone bathes her face in light, the countdown reaches 1, and she sees PMan's message:

 _yes when where?_

Giddy, she ignores the fact that she's just inadvertently rung in the New Year with her worst enemy because, soon enough, she'll finally get to meet her best friend.


	5. Love Like War

Pacing is better than vomiting he figures as he waits for his brother to arrive.

He could have gone alone, Soul knows that, but he's terrified. Of rejection or of acceptance, of the fact that the most important thing in his life right now is about to change irrevocably.

Is it too late to change his mind? He's not sure he can survive forever on the phantom of what could be, on a wish and a dream, but he can't lose her either.

Meeting is a mistake. Not meeting is a mistake. His life is one big, fat mistake.

The soft knock on his front door is enough to send his nerves into overdrive.

Why the fuck had he thought texting Wes was a good idea? Wes is- _Wes_.

Well, Killik and Harv are out of the question-even if he were willing to interrupt their date night, he'd never live down an internet girlfriend. Hell, she isn't even his _girlfriend_ , he just hopes that maybe, possibly, she might agree to be soon or at some future date. At least, he thinks that's what he's hoping, maybe. He really isn't sure; it's all just new and scary and new.

When had he caught the feelings so hard? Soul has never been in love, never even wanted to be, yet here he is, pretty damn sure that's what he feels for a woman he's never even met.

His life is absurd and he's a mess, so much so he's resorted to calling his brother for moral support.

Soul is so fucking screwed.

Another knock and he can't believe he's so worked up that he forgot to answer the first time. He's striding that way when his oversized entry door swings open and his brother comes in, dressed for a concert rather than a casual coffee shop encounter. _Of course_ the nosy bastard would use his key on the second knock.

"Nice tux."

Wes shrugs. On him, now, it manages to look elegant. "You knew I had a concert, what's going on?"

"I-" How to put it? "Wanted company?"

Eyebrows raise skeptically. Soul stifles a groan, refusing to look at his brother. He lets his gaze roam the room, eyes liting on the overpriced, modern furnishings his mother's interior designer selected, the whole place feeling particularly sterile just in this moment.

"Thought I'd buy you a cup of coffee to thank you for being a great big brother?"

Silence and eyebrows hitching even higher.

"O-kaaaay, look, I'm a chickenshit and I needed someone to come with me to _La Petite Mort_ to meet-a friend. Happy?"

Wes's eyebrows are back in their proper position, but his face now wears the infamous Evans Mask, the bored, impassive expression trademarked by their father, and his father before him, and every Evans male ad infinitum.

"A-friend?" He draws out the vowels of the second word. "Then why do you need me?"

The desire to answer that is zero. Calling Wes had been one of the stupider things he's done of late and there've been a few.

"Nevermind, I'll just go myself."

His brother's eyes sweep him up and down. Soul has on a nice button up and dark, designer jeans, he's spent a good hour on his hair, and he's put on his favorite pair of All Stars. Plus-he cringes as Wes gives the air a cursory sniff-he's actually wearing the pricey cologne his mother gifted him several years back that he never touches.

No one should sport a grin that devious, especially over a lot of nothing. _Fucking_ _Wes_.

"You have a date!" He snaps his fingers in the type of Eureka gesture that really ought to be reserved for Nobel prize worthy discoveries and not employed for such lowly purposes as tormenting a beleaguered younger brother.

"It's just coffee-"

"What I can't figure out," Wes ignores Soul completely as he speaks his thoughts aloud, "is why you need me. I mean, if you got up the nerve to ask-ohhhhhh!" His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning and Soul's stomach twists.

"You have a blind date, don't you, little brother? But who would you ever let set you up?" His older brother's musings as if he weren't standing a few feet away are getting old.

"Just fucking-"

"This wouldn't, perchance, have anything to do with the reason you're glued to Skype anytime you think no one's looking, now would it?"

"Noooo-" He shoves his hands in his pockets defiantly.

The eyebrow raise is back.

"Okay, fine, yes. Okay? _Yes_. Can we go now so I'm not late?"

Because Soul usually gives zero fucks about being on time aside from not wanting to be so late it draws extra attention, but he gives a lot of fucks about Bookworm, and the last thing he wants is for her to think he's careless-with her time, her person, _her_.

"You-really care about this girl, don't you?" Wes sobers quickly. "Or guy. Person?"

"Woman, and yes." At this point, there's nothing left to hide, no reason to hide it. He's dragged the devil to his doorstep, so he has to live with his Faustian bargain.

"Okay then, let's go." Wes has schooled his features into neutrality, the giddy light gone, and Soul breathes an audible sigh.

"Yeah, okay." He grabs his leather jacket from where he's tossed it on a chair and they both head out the door to face the beginning or the end of the rest of his life.

* * *

Twenty minutes and a brisk walk later, his pacing has resumed in front of the coffee shop. He knows she's there already-she'd messaged him as much-and the fear is crippling.

Once he crosses this threshold he can't uncross it.

"Don't you think we should go in? I thought you didn't want to be late." Wes leans against the half wall of the stairs in front of the restaurant, arms folded across his chest. He receives the occasional double take from people passing on the street that he either doesn't notice or ignores-this hipster little cafe in a hipster little neighborhood of DC is hardly a place people expect to see a man in a tuxedo, apparently.

"Yes. No. _I don't know_." He tugs at his hair in his frustration. This shouldn't be so _hard_. "Can you-look maybe? Tell me what you see?"

Maybe if he gets a visual, it'll help.

"Or you could just go in?"

A vigorous head shake, a deep breath. He's got to calm down. She's in there, right now, the person he can admit, if only here and now and to himself, that he cares most about in the world. The person whose name he doesn't even know. It's absurd, and yet-

"Look. The person in there waiting, she's the most amazing person I've ever known, okay?" Another deep breath. "I don't give a shit what she looks like, I just want-I'm not even sure what I want, but I know it involves her in my life for as long as she's willing. So can you just-"

Wes sighs, nods, climbs the few steps to peek inside the crowded cafe.

"Hmmm, well that person is definitely attractive-"

Soul pauses in his pacing, breath bated.

"And she has a book with a rose?"

Wes turns his head to look down at him. "Well, no-it's the waiter."

The groan is completely justified.

"-but I do see a book with a rose, now that you mention it again."

"And?" Every muscle tenses.

"Annnnd the waiter is blocking whoever it is-"

"Fuck, Wes, just-"

"Wait, wait, he's moving and..." he trails off and Soul wants to throttle him.

"Wes," he growls.

"Well-she's-very attractive." Why does his brother sound so cautious?

The grin spreads across his face unbidden. He doesn't care what she looks like, he truly doesn't, but if Wes thinks she's pretty, well, that's just icing on the cake, right?

"Yesss, good, but _what's she look like?_ "

"Well." He clears his throat. "You know-she almost looks like-like Liz's friend Maka."

"Maka _Albarn?_ " He can't help his incredulity.

"Yes, Maka Albarn! I believe you were ranting about her the other day, so you're well aware of what she looks like."

"I wasn't ranting, and who the fuck cares about Maka Albarn?"

Why his brother would bring her up, of all people, Soul has no clue. Sure, she's pretty, with eyes like green fire and a personality to match. He supposes if Bookworm resembles her, it's not a bad thing, far from it, but _still_ -

"If you don't like Maka Albarn, you definitely won't like this girl," Wes says carefully.

He offers his brother a slow blink, confusion glazing over the fear and excitement that currently battle within him.

Shaking his head, he says, "Why not? I already told you-"

"Because it _is_ Maka Albarn." His brother cuts him off and Soul's feet are moving before he can think better of it, shoving past Wes to look through the window. Sure enough, sitting at a little table with a book and a rose is Maka _Fucking_ Albarn.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, then repeats, " ** _Fuck_**."

His heart sinks into the deepest depths of hell.

"So, little brother." He feels a hand on his shoulder as he continues to stare into the window, to stare at the woman who represents the train wreck his life has become. "What will you do now?"

Soul takes in a deep, cleansing breath before turning around, tearing his gaze away from where his heart lays bleeding in the middle of a damn hipster cafe.

"Nothing," he says, punctuating it with a small shrug.

Wes looks completely unconvinced, damn his expressive eyebrows.

"You're-just going to let her sit there, then?"

"Yep, exactly." He will not feel guilty over this, not when it hurts so damn much.

"Even though she's the most amazing person you've ever known, as you told me mere minutes ago?"

Walking past his brother down the stairs, he pauses at the bottom.

"Goodnight, Wes. Tell Liz I said hi and I want my Lyle Mays album back."

His brother looks down at him, sighs the most disappointed sigh in his bag of big brotherly tricks, then walks down the stairs.

"Tell her yourself. Goodnight, little brother."

And with that, Wes disappears into the night and Soul is left only with heartache and gnawing guilt.

* * *

Pianoman is late. She hates the way fear claws at her because nothing good ever comes of someone being late. Not for her papa, who mama had told her was late most days until one day he just didn't come home, not for her mama the day she didn't show up for her High School academic decathlon-she'd collapsed in the shop, the first sign of the cancer that was eating her from the inside out. And certainly not for herself the day her swim practice ran just minutes too late for her to get to the hospital in time to say goodbye.

His tardiness is an ill omen, and part of her wants to get up and leave before it can manifest.

Maka won't, of course, cares too much about him to leave him in the lurch and aches for the comfort of his presence besides. What will it be like, to finally meet her best friend, the man who has been her rock through these months of hell, the man she's pretty sure she-

The door opens and her eyes shoot to the front of the cafe. The man who walks in is at least 70 with a woman of a similar age on his arm. Obviously, it isn't him, though he should have been here thirty minutes ago. _Where is he?_

Biting her lip to distract herself from the the rising bile in her throat, the rising poison in her heart, Maka's eyes fly back to the door once more as it opens yet again and the bile thickens and her heart stops.

Not _now_ , of all times and places! She snatches the book from the end of the table and buries her face in it, unwilling to acknowledge his presence, hoping he won't notice hers because Solomon Evans is the last person on earth she wants to see just now. Maka nudges the rose to the end of the table.

 _Please don't notice please don't notice please don't notice._

Likely, he will say nothing even if he _does_ -they have become perfectly adept at ignoring one another's existence. Relief washes through her as moments pass and he fails to appear.

The sound of the chair across from her scraping against the floor draws her attention, and she looks up, ready to tell the third person tonight she's waiting for someone so, no, they can't have that chair-when she's faced with that same Soul Evans she'd wrongly assumed was content to mutually ignore her instead, now sitting across from her.

"Mind if I sit? Place is packed."

It is, but she does. She stares at him, stunned at his very audacity in inviting himself to sit.

It takes her a breath to find her voice. "Actually, I'm waiting for someone, so if you could please-"

"No worries, I'm just getting some coffee-I can move when your friend shows. I'll even get your drink for the trouble-"

"No thanks." There's a vehemence wrought of nerves and pent up frustration in her voice. "I'll pass on more of your bribes."

His carefully neutral expression slides into a frown, and if she didn't know better, Maka might almost have said there'd been a flash of hurt in his eyes. Impossible.

"Suit yourself," he says with a half shrug, face moving back to bored neutrality. The server approaches to take his order, but Maka interrupts quickly, eager to nip this whole fiasco in the bud.

"He's not staying."

"I'll have a double cappuccino and one of those chocolate tapas plates, thanks," he says. She wants to scream. PMan could be here any second and her nemesis _won't go away._

The server looks between them, clearly confused, before bustling away, whether to bring back the stated order or not, Maka has no clue. _La Petite Mort_ is known for their dessert tapas, and the fact that she'd been thinking she'd share one of those platters with PMan has her even more annoyed.

Maybe if she ignores him, he'll get the hint and go away. She certainly has zero interest in talking to him. Hell, he's the reason she's even here in a way, the strain of her failing shop his doing. Without that, she never would have asked to meet PMan. But-why is he here and now? Usually, Soul Evans is so careful to ignore her existence just as thoroughly as she avoids his. So why here and now?

Maka tries to focus on her book, the words on the page, but her need to pay attention to the door and the unwanted presence across from her make it impossible. Lizzie Bennet will have to wait.

"What're you reading?" His voice interrupts her thoughts just as she's about to put down the book anyway, so she does, punctuating her short answer.

" _Pride and Prejudice_."

The rose is on his side of the table, she notes, so she reaches to grab it, but he somehow anticipates her and grabs it first, damn him to hell. The smug look on his face is infuriating as puts it to his nose and sniffs deeply.

"Nice rose. Red. You always struck me more as the yellow rose type. And you're reading a romance novel. Are you trying to send this person you're meeting a message, maybe?"

The growl is completely involuntary. "The answer to that would be none of your damn business, and _Pride and Prejudice_ isn't just some-some cheesy romance novel! Not that I'd expect someone like you to know any better. You may _sell_ books, but I doubt you _read_ them. _Now give that back._ "

If her words affect him, he doesn't show it. The server brings his order just then, and Soul Evans sets the rose down with a small shrug. The platter of chocolates looks delicious. Maka pointedly ignores it and sips her tea, though the man across from her seems content enough to tear into it with those wickedly sharp teeth of his. Patti has informed her often enough he has no girlfriend or boyfriend and seemingly no interest in changing that. He's handsome, intriguingly so if she didn't know better than to be intrigued, know what lies beneath, but that he's also strange. Maka has always had an affinity for the outliers, and she wonders how many people his looks have scared off since Patti had also told her, when she'd scoffed that a wealthy business person still seems stuck in his high school emo phase, that the eyes and hair and teeth are all real.

She doesn't want to have sympathy for the devil.

Another sip of tea, the warmth and sweetness of her masala chai soothing on her tongue. People come in and people go out, none of them _him_ , and just when she thinks maybe the man in front of her is done and will finish and go, he's speaking again, a good quarter of his chocolate plate gone.

"I've read it, you know."

"Read-what?" Maka stares her confusion, the thread of whatever they'd said before lost in chai tea and anxiety for PMan, but he nods towards the book that now sits on the table near her elbow.

"Some professor at whatever overpriced ivy you attended forced it on you, I'm sure."

A small shrug. "Not really, no."

"Well, I'm sure you got every nuance of meaning and satire," she scoffs, though perhaps more than anything she's surprised such a man would bother.

Another small shrug and that damn bored poker face he habitually wears. "You know, you're a lot like that chick in the book. Too proud. Or too prejudiced? Shit, I don't remember. But you know-she didn't even give that guy a chance."

Indignation swells. "Elizabeth Bennett isn't just some 'chick'-she's an amazingly complex heroine!"

"She wasn't great at really listening to what people say either," he half mumbles, and there's a hint of frustration there she _just doesn't get._

 _Why is he here, now, of all places?_

"Please-" she half whispers, half groans "-just. Go. I'm expecting someone and-"

Soul Evans looks torn staring back at her. As he shifts in his chair, hope wells within her that he's going to listen, but then he just shrugs again. "I'll be done soon and there's nowhere else to sit." He punctuates this by popping another chocolate in his mouth. "Want one?"

"No." Not adding _hell no_ is a near thing. As if she'd share with _him_ of all people. He can keep his damn dirty blood chocolate.

Venturing a look around, hoping to suggest alternate accommodations, Maka marvels anew at the odd mix of European aesthetic and hipster kitsch that defines the place. It works, somehow, barely. She also finds he's not wrong-there isn't an empty chair to be had-and nearly groans again. Still, the man makes no _sense_. None. Why subject them both to this unpleasantness in the first place?

"Your loss," he finally says as he finishes swallowing an oversized bite of the chocolate heaven he has gifted himself with.

Her anxiety level is rising steadily. PMan could come in at any second, he's so late, she's so worried.

"It must be completely exhausting to be this unbearable." The words leave her mouth before she knows she means to say them, and for an instant, just an instant, his mask cracks, though the expression it reveals is one that Maka can't quite read.

"Probably less than being so angry all the time." His mask is back, his voice flat.

"Ha!" She has no mask to wear, so of course he throws it in her face. "Have you ever thought it's just your presence that makes me this way? I care about people, not money. I care about the children who buy books at the shop, like my mama did, and that's _something_. Maybe not something that'll make me rich, and maybe not something that can last-I know I don't really matter, not to people like you, but I'd rather be poor, be nothing and no one, than have all the money in the world and nothing else to show for it. You like to act like you're above it all and I guess maybe you are. Maybe you just don't care about anything. You call yourself Soul, yet you seem to have sold yours. Honestly, you might want to stick with Solomon. It's suits you."

Anger, fear, frustration-it all erupts onto a single target, her inner asshole unleashed at last. It's almost cathartic, until it isn't.

Soul Evans sits and blinks at her for a second, then two. He looks dazed, but apathy reappears quickly enough. "I think-that's my cue," he says, voice quiet and careful. "Enjoy your tea."

Getting up, he puts far too much money on the table and then leaves, and Maka is left to wait for Pianoman alone, his half eaten plate of gourmet chocolate still sitting on the table like an unspoken accusation. She's done it, finally, said the thing she meant to, obliterated her nemesis to the point he's left with his tail between his legs.

She's _won!_ Well, this small battle, anyway, so why does it feel so _empty?_ Hadn't he deserved it?

Doubt rises. Yes, he's a rich, selfish prick who invaded her space-but that doesn't excuse her being so callous, so _cruel_.

Maybe she'd wanted him to leave, but not so much it's worth selling her own soul, and Maka feels nothing but regret as she stares after Soul Evans, stares at the door, and continues to wait for Pianoman.

* * *

The last thing Soul expects is to see is an email from her in the morning, but that's exactly what's there, staring him in the face like an indictment.

They so rarely use email-Skype is easier-yet there it sits. He sees her address, , and cringes.

Soul knows an accusation when he sees one and he won't bite, won't click on the electronic message so innocently entitled _Hello?_ only to face shame and regret. He's had enough of that in the past twelve hours to last two lifetimes.

The heartache is real, and he refuses to dig himself a deeper hole.

Tempted to delete the email, guilt runs through his veins like a sickness and he chooses to ignore it instead, just as he has the half dozen Skype messages she's sent. Soul shuts the laptop with an ominous click, harsh in his ears in the quiet of his sound proofed penthouse apartment. Only the best for an Evans. Right now he'd prefer some noise, anything to shake off the accusatory silence.

The urge to play hits hard. He's been playing more these past months, venting feelings he can't quite name through his fingertips. Does he deserve the release it might bring? Hell, would it even bring any? There's an ache he's convinced is permanent, and last night he'd talked himself into cutting her out of his life cold turkey. Bookworm, _his_ Bookworm, is Maka Albarn, the woman who hates him so viciously that she'd told the world they could save their souls by avoiding his store and told him to his face he didn't have one to save. Whatever she might have felt for Pianoman was surely destroyed when he stood her up so callously, and with what she feels for Soul Evans, well, what good can come from any of this?

Fate or luck, it's fucking cruel. Leave it to him to have his heart touched for the first time by the one person who actively hates him. Then again, maybe he should have expected it-his life has always been something of a flaming garbage pile when it comes to getting anything he truly wants.

He's pacing again, wearing a track on the carpet in front of the behemoth of a desk in the study where he keeps his laptop. Fuck it, he'll play. Feet turn out of the room, across the hall, to the exquisitely tacky music room, all black and red and velvet and marble. He's almost ashamed to think it suits his mood as well as it does his aesthetic. He approaches the glossy black piano that the twice a week cleaning service assures is always pristine, runs a finger along the fallboard, stops.

Maybe he should check that email. He doesn't have to reply just-check. Yeah. No. He shouldn't.

Sitting at the piano he opens the fallboard. Fingers the keys, but no music will come. There is only that title in the ever sad press of a G.

 _Hello?_

Just one look. That's it. Just to kill curiosity before it can kill him.

Off the bench he scrambles, nearly kicking it over, not even bothering to close the fallboard. Mother would be furious at his treatment of such an instrument; Soul knows his piano is made of tougher stuff, even if he himself is not.

The study is just how he left it, closed laptop, ridiculously oversized mahogany desk, dark shelves stuffed with classics, most of which he's never touched. He's in the large leather desk chair in an instant, laptop open, email open.

One quick reading and he hasn't caught any sense. He's too nervous, eager, afraid-the words are just words, meaning elusive.

Deep breath. Try again. Slowly. Carefully.

 _To: jazzpianoman_

 _From: blondebookworm  
_

 _Subject: Hello?_

 _Dear Pianoman,_

 _I know we don't email often, but I'm so worried I thought I'd try this. And I want you to know, I'm not upset, because I know you must have had good reason not to be there, I'm truly just worried._

 _Are you okay? Can you please just tell me that much?_

 _That's what I need to know most. I hope whatever kept you away finds you safe. And if what kept you away wasn't harm but rather fear or regret, I want you to know I understand. Maybe I pushed something you weren't ready for, I'm not sure, but I'm not angry, I promise. It's okay if you don't want to meet me._

 _To be honest, I'm mostly just confused, and maybe a little hurt, and I really do hope there's a good reason for your absence._

 _It was a difficult evening. I waited, and while you didn't arrive, someone else did, someone who has made things very difficult for me, someone who I wish to avoid. In truth, it was the very same man who provoked me at that party months ago, do you remember? And you know, I finally channeled your inner asshole. No, that's wrong. It was surely my own inner asshole because I can't imagine you being so cruel for all your talk._

 _I said some things to this man-some horrible, hateful things. I remember you telling me it wasn't a good thing, that ability to say what you wish in the moment, that in the end you always felt terrible. You were right, as you are more often than I sometimes like to admit. I thought it would be a moment of satisfaction, of triumph, but in the end, it just felt empty. Worse than empty. By the time I got home, I felt like a jerk, just as you said I would. Because it doesn't matter how difficult he's made my life of late, it doesn't matter that I didn't want him there, it doesn't even matter that he probably wasn't affected by my words at all-I'm nothing to a man like that. Because in the end, he didn't deserve that, and if there's even the smallest chance that my words hurt him, it's too much._

 _I don't want to hurt people ever, not even him, and especially not over something like business. I ended my night with guilt and fear. I'm hoping you can at least help with the second by telling me you're okay._

 _And whatever happened, whatever happens, you should know how much it's meant to me, our little talks, our friendship. I know it's just words on a screen, and half the time we're exchanging stupid pet gifs and talking about a lot of nothing, but you know what? All of that nothing has meant a lot of something to me, and if even a sliver of good came out of last night, it's that it made me realize how much I'd miss you if you were gone. Just knowing you're there, it's meant so much_

 _So whatever happens, whatever happened, thank you for that._

 _Goodnight. I hope to hear from you in the morning._

 _BB_

Soul gets up, pushing the laptop shut as he goes. He can't breathe, can't think, can't. His steps lead back to the piano, and this time he doesn't think or hesitate, just _plays_.

The song is no song at all, just love and loss, pain and confusion and a light in the darkness he's not meant to reach. How could he have thought he would ever be worthy of her light?

His fingers trail off. He isn't. If last night proved anything to him it proved that. But that email-how could he have even considered ignoring her, leaving her blind to what had happened when he knows her heart, her greatest fear is to be left behind?

Gods he's an asshole. Not her. Never her. _Him_. All him.

And he realizes, somewhere deep and true, that Bookworm is Maka Albarn and he _doesn't fucking care._ Maybe he doesn't want the same things anymore he thought he did-he's so confused he doesn't know what he wants-but he still wants _something_. He remembers the utterly stricken look when she noticed him last night, before she'd hidden behind her book, knows she'll never accept Soul Evans, as friend or otherwise-but he can still be there for her as Pianoman, if he will.

And he will. How can he not?

Nearly kicking over the bench again in his haste, Soul hurries back to the study, unwilling to keep her waiting a second longer.

Willing and able are two different things, he quickly finds, because _what can he say?_ And anyway, he hates email-it always feels so formal, compelling him to use those pesky bits like punctuation and capital letters.

Starting is the worst part, right?

 _I'm sorry about last night,_ he begins to type, _there was a terrible accident. A-_ he fishes for words, for a plausible reason, anything - _dog crossed in front of a big rig, it was a mess, and-_

No, she would see through that one in the seconds it took to do an internet search. _Shit_.

Delete and start again.

 _I'm sorry I wasn't there last night, my brother almost died and I had to-_

Fuck, no. She doesn't even know he has a brother. The truth is, Soul hates the idea of lying to her, but he can't tell her the truth either, not if he wants to keep her in his life.

Maybe he doesn't have to lie. Not that she really accepts omissions as truth-that had been crystal clear at that party. Still, better not to lie outright, at least for his own conscience, not that he often admits he has one.

 _To:blondebookworm  
_

 _From:_ _jazzpianoman_

 _Subject: Re: Hello?_

 _I'm sorry for last night, and even more sorry that you expected to meet a friend and found an enemy instead. I wish I could explain what happened, but I promise you I'm okay and that I never meant to hurt you. Whatever you said, I'm sure the asshole deserved it. Anything that happened is my fault, and I hope you'll forgive me for that someday._

 _I wish I could have supported you, and I'm sorry for whatever worry and pain last night caused you. But I promise I'm still here, I'm still listening, and I will be as long as you want me to be._

 _PMan_

Soul hits send before he can think better of it and closes his laptop. His breath comes in labored spurts, panic seizing him.

Will she ever talk to him again? Does he even _want_ her to? He does-fuck him, he really does. He's so damn stupid, but Maka Albarn or not, he can't lose Bookworm.

Minutes pass and he wears down his carpet further, or at least, it feels that way, walking a groove back and forth and back again. He should probably do something, go somewhere, anything.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and his throat closes, panic overwhelming. He fears, how he fears, her rejection, or her acceptance, or her response, or no response. All paths leave his heart just as fragmented. He's not sure he can ever pick up the pieces from last night but he's _trying_.

Shoving his hand in his pocket before he can think better, Soul sees the Skype alert on his screen.

 _BlondeBookworm: Good morning. I'm glad you're okay._

The breath he lets out is laden with the fear, the anxiety, the guilt he's stored up since yesterday. He can't release it all so quickly and the last will never go, but it's a start.

Bookworm is still talking to him and that's all that matters.


	6. Please Pass the Salt

Lunch with her friends is a welcome distraction, even if she really should be pinching every penny. It's nice to see Kid and Blake and Crona and Patti in a setting outside the shop and all together, nice to forget that her life is falling apart even for just this hour, or at least try to. She wishes Tsu were here, and Marie, to complete her circle of absolute favorite people, but they are both busy at the bakery, Valentine's Day orders rolling in. Well, and there's also PMan, but clearly lunch with him is off the table. Maka refuses to let that sting as much as it does.

Of course, actually forgetting is easier said than done. And anyway, she has something to share that makes forgetting impossible.

"Everything okay?" Kid interrupts her thoughts, leveling her one of those placid stares that she's only able to read as worry because she's known him for so long. Everything with the shop has him being careful around her, and add to that he's the only one she'd told about the meet up that never happened and he's become downright overprotective. Or as overprotective as someone as inherently reserved as Kid can actually get. She had forgiven PMan quickly, even if the lack of real explanation remains like a stone of hurt, buried deep. Still, this new dynamic with Kid sits oddly on both of them, so she works again to reassure him.

"Fine, just trying to decide what to order. You said the pork bahn mi is good?"

"Delicious and extremely well crafted, yes. But-" She sees the little wrinkle between his brows that means he's probably about to voice concern, so she cuts him off.

"Bahn mi it is! I'm _so_ glad you found this place, by the way. After _Left Pho Dead_ closed I thought I'd never eat decent Vietnamese again!" Maka knows her voice is a touch too bright, too enthusiastic, but she needs to fake it till she makes it just now.

"Ah, yes, it was a shame they closed, but these things happen. The owners were ready to retire and their children had no interest in running it, so there was really no choice."

It had been the closing heard round the city at the time, but with _Ăn Chết_ now open, the old neighborhood staple has largely been forgotten. Maka silently wonders if that will be the fate of _Pocket Full of Posies-_ -mourned for a few months only to be replaced so easily. Perhaps the Ngo children had it right. They'd followed their dreams and let their parents' legacy die. Well, now she has no choice so it's a moot point. Her mama's legacy will be as dead as the woman herself soon enough.

"There are times," Kid adds after a short pause, "when it is imperative to follow your own path. I know I would not have chosen to follow in my father's footsteps even if I _could_."

Maka looks at him, really looks, and there's a tightness around his eyes, a caution. He never speaks of his parents, his past, his life before high school, really. "Your father? What did he do?" Her tone is equally cautious, eager to solve the mystery of the past of such an old friend, but equally afraid to spook him.

"I've never told you about him, I'm sure. He-wasn't a good man. He was the ruler of Morte."

Maka suppresses her shock. Barely. Patti's eyes go wide. Crona, the one Maka would have pegged to be most upset by such a revelation, seems entirely unfazed. And Blake, of course, is Blake, standing and gaping. Still, who hasn't heard stories of the bloody fall of the small South American country of Morte and the even bloodier regime of its infamous ruler, dubbed by most as Lord Death, who sent his military "reapers" around to silence any and all opposition?

"Duuuuude!" Blake nearly shouts, earning a sharp look from the man next to him. He doesn't even look sheepish but he does sit down and lower his voice. " _What_ the what? You've never even told _me_ that. I can't believe your dad was a fucking dictator."

" _Was_ being operative," Kid says mildly. "He was overthrown when I was an infant and my mother brought me here with most of his considerable assets, gained on the backs of the suffering of his people. In any case, I can only be glad to have escaped that fate. We don't have to be bound to the legacy of our parents, good or bad."

Maka nods, still stunned by the new knowledge that such a close friend is the son of one of the bloodiest dictators of the twentieth century, but also knowing that this little revelation is somehow for her. It does not remove the sting of her own situation and Kid must know the conclusion she's come to, must have come to the same one long before.

About to speak it, about to take this opening, Crona's soft voice is heard instead. "Your mama was Lady Arachne of Morte."

It's Kid's turn to look surprised. While tales of Lord Death are widespread enough, Death City being the home of so many who fled, tales of his wife are non existent. Maka herself has never heard her name, but Kid nods slow confirmation.

"Yes. She was also-not a kind woman, though she was not the monster my father was."

"I know," Crona says, voice soft. "She was mother's sister. When you took me in and I finally met you, after so many stories of your mother-I was just glad to know there was one kind person in my family."

"I-" Kid stammers. Maka isn't sure she's ever seen the unflappable Thanatos Kachadoorian speechless, but there he sits, blinking at Crona. Crona, for their part, looks absolutely content, completely unperturbed as the entire table sits stunned.

"How did you never tell me this?" Pat looks indignant next to Crona, who offers a sheepish little smile.

"I-thought it wasn't mine to reveal? I-wasn't sure if y-you knew?" They turn their eyes to Kid.

"I had no idea my mother had a sister," he says mildly, adding, "or rather, after her death, I found pictures of her with two other girls along with what I assume were their parents, but I had nothing to go on and have long since put it out of mind." He looks thoughtful for an instant, and Maka feels a little like being in the middle of a television soap opera. Compared to all this, her little life's drama seems small. Kid finally smiles back at Crona, and though Maka can tell it's a little forced, she also knows that Kid has never much liked surprises, the unpredictability and disorder painful for him. "I'm also glad to meet someone in my line who is kind."

"Oh my god, Kiddo, you're cousins!" Patti exclaims happily just then, standing from her place between them to grab them both in a hug from behind. " _THIS IS SO COOL!"_

"Well damn," Blake agrees.

Kid, always uncomfortable with such public shows of physical affection, looks decidedly pained, and Crona looks little better, so Maka takes her moment to redirect this life altering drama with her own revelation of yet more life altering drama. Hers, at least, is entirely predictable.

"I'm closing the store," she blurts all at once, like ripping off a band aid.

Every head swivels in her direction, the hug ends in an instant, Patti sitting, and then, stunned silence.

Only Kid seems unperturbed, suddenly far more comfortable with this return to the known, the expected. He nods slowly. "Closing now is the right thing to do, Maka. The brave thing."

It sure doesn't feel that way. It feels like she's a big fat failure. She bites her lip, fishing for a response that doesn't make her want to cry.

"There really isn't another choice," she settles on.

"There really is. As your accountant, we've even discussed this. You could hold out, keep going, hope the tide shifts, probably keep it open another year until closing really is the only option. You could do that, but you've dared to imagine a different future, and that takes courage whether you see it or not."

"Kid's right." Blake puts a hand on her shoulder from his place next to her. He's so subdued it makes her feel even _worse_. She must really look bad. "Ever since we were kids, running your mom's shop is all you ever talked about because of _course_ you'd take over. But remember when we were in high school, before she died, and you thought, hey, you could see the world and write for awhile just like _she_ always wanted to do? Well, now you _can_. That's lit as hell."

"Hells yeah!" Pat agrees, nearly shouting.

Crona's assent is more quiet, but still genuine. Crona, who will lose their new livelihood, is projecting happiness, _for her._

Maka swallows down tears and forces a smile.

"Yeah, you're right. It's gonna be okay."

And with such good friends around her, maybe it even will be.

* * *

Two things definitely shouldn't be happening here and now, but they're happening anyway. First, his brother and future sister-in-law should not be having this conversation two months before wedded bliss, but second, and most importantly, they shouldn't be having it with him actually here.

Soul wants to pace but that would draw attention to his presence which would just be awkward, wants to leave but that would do the same, so he just sits, on the closed toilet, regretting every life choice that led him to hide in the bathroom and message Bookworm while his brother went to check on Liz, who had been taking far too long to get ready. And why is whatever room they currently occupy only a wall apart from the bathroom he's absconded to? And why oh fucking why does Wes clearly not have the level of sound proofing Mother had absolutely insisted on for his own place?

Maybe if he wills it hard enough, he can die, right here where he sits. If that means dying on a toilet, well, at least he won't be around to face the embarrassment. But no, the gods are not so kind, and he must face this current embarrassment head on. He tries to focus on his messaging instead, but it's impossible with the drama unfolding a thin wall away.

The uncontrollable sobbing has stopped, anyway, but that means more words can happen. _Oh boy._

"I can't do this, I'm not ready-god what if I'm like my mom? And my dress-shit, my dress won't fit. _I can't do this._ _Why the hell did I let you talk me into sex the day after I missed that pill?_ " Liz practically shrieks the last and, jeezus fuck, pleeease don't let them talk about sex. Soul has gotten enough play by play from Wes to last two lifetimes, thanks much.

"Shhh, it's okay. We'll be okay. Though." A pause. "I do recall you didn't need much convincing." There is a muffled, animal noise, and then, "Look, you don't have to decide anything right now, and if you aren't ready, that's fine, we will do whatever you decide on-but it's not just you, Liz. It's _us_ , okay? Me and you, and I think we could do this. You raised your own sister-I'm more worried I'm the one who will botch the job-but I think with you, even I'd be able to manage."

This shit is definitely not for his ears, his brother all grossly vulnerable and, gods, he's not good with this emotional crap. _Why the fuck didn't he bring his earbuds?_ He always brings his earbuds.

"I-maybe." The woman's voice is small and careful. Soul has only heard her sound anything close once, during a horror film. Elizabeth Thompson is tough as nails and well past over the world and this sounds nothing like her. "With you? Maybe. I guess-we could try." There's a small laugh. "I mean, at worst we could get a nanny to raise it like your parents did."

"That's the spirit!" His brother chuckles, and then, oh fuck, that lip smacking can't be good. At all. _No no no no no._ Soul is still working through the idea he might be an uncle; he absolutely definitely does not need to hear a live version of how that probably happened.

Focusing on his phone, he reviews his semi ongoing conversation with Maka. _Maka._ When has he begun to think of her that way, so easily interchangeable with Bookworm? He knows it's a hard week for her with her store closing, and the guilt stabs him anew. He's tried to offer subtle support even if she's never quite given PMan details, but what could ever be enough?

The messages don't make that any less apparent.

 _Did I tell you I found out one of my closest friends was keeping a huge secret for years? It was a few weeks ago, but I'm still in shock. Not in that way you judge people or anything, more just that he held such a big thing so close for so long when he didn't have to because we never would have cared._

Soul had wondered which friend and _what,_ but it's not like he can ask.

 _sometimes its easier 4 people 2 keep the truth close_

 _I'm not convinced that's the case. Maybe he thought it would be easier on his friends, but that was misguided. It can't be easier on him to hold it in. And now he's keeping another secret, too!_

The lip smacking has graduated to rustling and small gasps and moans and grunts and he's going to fucking die, _please fucking die._

He tries to read the end of their conversation, scanning for her latest message.

 _he is? how do u know_

 _Because I've seen it! And it's not just him, it's my best friend, too! I've seen them holding hands. And meaningful glances when they think I won't see. I kind of guessed they liked each other a long time ago, and I'm happy for them, but they're hiding it, thinking-I don't even know what! And I can't believe my best friend is hiding it, he's never subtle about anything!_

 _well u said u have a lot going on maybe they think their protecting u_

Her latest message may be worse than the god awful noises coming from the room next door.

 _They're. And they aren't. And I don't need protecting! But most of all? I hate being lied to. That's the worst. Liars are the worst._

Liars like _him_ , she means, because omission is lying in her book and he's omitting a fuck of a lot just now.

The reply he types isn't self serving at all.

 _try 2 remember THEY'RE probably doing it bcause they care about u_

As he hits send, Soul hears his soon to be sister in law moan, "God, please fuck me," hears the sound of a body slam against the wall, and he's _done_ , he's out-any noise he could possibly make in his hasty retreat will surely not be noticed over _that_.

Five minutes later he's on his bike, weaving through traffic, headed for the closest road out of town and to the stretch of desert beyond.

His head is full as he hits the open road, helmet still in his bag, wind caressing his hair, of things he's trying hard to forget, yes, but also of things that make him ache, of things he can't have. Not sex, that part of what he'd overheard he's shoved to a place of _hell fucking no_ and hopes he's not traumatized for life-but partnership.

What Liz and Wes have, it's not just sex. It's far greater than sex. That support, that idea they're a team, he wants that, too. He never thought he did, and maybe he still wouldn't if not for _her_.

Soul wants to be her friend, he realizes. More than her friend, so much more, but being her friend would be a start. Not just PMan-but _Soul_. And maybe that's not possible, probably it isn't, but he realizes with sudden clarity that he hasn't even _tried_.

Recalling a conversation from months ago, everything just clicks and he knows he has to try.

 _Do you believe in love?_ She'd asked one day, completely out of the blue.

 _dunno maybe for other people not sure for me what about you?_

 _I'm not sure either, but if love is a real thing, I don't think it's like people think. Most people say love is like sugar, sweet and easy, but that can't be right. If there is such a thing as love, not just friendship or whatever but that mysterious thing most people seem to want so badly, I think maybe it's like that folktale says-it's like salt. It's not sweet and perfect, and it's not the center of everything, it's just-it enhances what's already there, makes it better, maybe, but it needs something to work with, it's not enough alone. And maybe that's why most people can't find it, because they aren't looking in the right place at all-they're fishing in the sugar bowl when they should be reaching for the salt. That's what I think, anyway._

 _deep,_ he'd responded, because what could he say to that?

But now-as he rides into the sunset, full of what it's possible for two people to share, now he knows. She's right. Love isn't sweetness and light and he doesn't _want_ it to be either. He's ready to reach for the salt.

* * *

Maka can't believe it's over, that this is the last hour of the last day of the rest of her life. Blake's last day was yesterday, Kid worked this morning to finish out the books, and now it's just her and her papa, clearing out the last few things so the new tenant can take possession. Or maybe it's the new owner. She's heard rumors the entire building has been sold, but they mean nothing to her anymore.

 _Pocket Full of Posies_ is dead and with it goes a chunk of her heart.

Her papa hums as he wipes down a counter, and she's not sure if what she feels is gratitude or annoyance at his presence beneath the tumultuous swirl of her emotions. Probably both. Maka can't believe that a man in his forties is still a sought after model; he's cancelled a well paying job to be here, so she tries to let gratitude win. Still, the poison claws of his early abandonment run deep, even years later.

There's enough poison in her life just now, so she clears her throat to gain his attention.

"Erm, Spir-Papa?" She wants to be good, to be kind.

"Yes, angel?" He turns instantly to address her, indulgent smile framed by the flaming red of his overdyed hair.

"We're almost done here, so could you maybe drop that box off at my place?"

The frown is so exaggerated it's comical. He never did do emotion by halves-it's probably why her parents hadn't really worked in the first place.

"I mean, of course I will, but I thought maybe-"

She _knows_. He thought he'd buy dinner for his favorite Valentine, thought they'd close the shop together, thought a dozen things she can't bring herself to do just now, so she cuts him off.

"It would be such a help if you brought that box home, and maybe we could get lunch together tomorrow?"

Spirit Albarn's face instantly brightens, and Maka is reminded of how charming he can be when he tries. "Of course, my treat!" He scoops up the box, a new spring in his step, and grins her way. "I'll come by your place around noon?"

"Sounds good," she says, then as he looks expectant, "thanks, Papa."

He's out the door an instant later and relief floods her. Alone at last, alone with her shop-her mama's shop. Alone with a dead legacy and the ache in her heart that will never quite heal.

Maka looks around. It's empty, shelves barren and a single item left on the wall.

The few steps to the picture feel like an eternity, like she's wading through water. Her chest hurts as she reaches up and strokes the side of the frame. Her mama with her, so happy to read their favorite book together. Her mama alive, in this space she created for them. Her mama before it all went to hell. She swallows down the painful lump, blinks back the flood of tears, and carefully, so carefully, takes the picture from the wall, tucking it under her elbow for safe keeping.

A last look around is all she allows herself before grabbing her purse along with the handmade sign on the counter. This isn't her shop anymore, but an empty shell of what had been and can never be again.

With slow, measured steps, Maka walks to the door. Places the sign in the window. Walks out and inspects it as she pulls out her key and works the lock for the last time.

 _After 25 years,_ Pocket Full of Posies _has closed our doors. Thank you for letting us be a part of your lives._

A nod, a swipe at rogue tears, and, purse on one arm, picture under the other, she starts her last walk home.

As she passes _Evans_ , she pauses. Crosses the street. Stops in the oversized doorway.

She's never been inside and she wonders-what is this monster that has replaced her little store? Grief and curiosity drive her steps as she enters, hand trailing along shelves and furniture. Maka isn't ready to go home just yet, and maybe she needs this closure too, needs to see what will remain when she's gone.

In terms of design, she must admit, however reluctantly, that it's an impressive space. It's not cozy like her little shop, but open and airy, yet with inviting little nooks where a person might disappear with a book for hours. It's a warm space, and that surprises her, but maybe it shouldn't. Afterall, she had thought Soul Evan's eyes warm once, before she knew what that premonition she had about him, so many months ago when he first stumbled into her shop, meant, before she realized that he would become a part of her life only to ruin it.

Blaming him doesn't help, though, doesn't bring her shop back, so Maka keeps moving, past an extensive music section lined with cozy little listening rooms and up the stairs where bright signs indicate she'll find the children's department.

If she's honest, and she can be nothing but with herself, the place is amazing. It's bright and colorful and stuffed full with books of every description. There're small couches and chairs and nooks just like downstairs, but in more kid friendly sizes and arrays, and even a stage in one corner where they must offer readings. Her feet take her to a little table where she sits and soaks it in, this space that has stolen the hearts and wallets of her clientele.

There are faces, familiar and unfamiliar, all content. A woman approaches one of the two attendants Maka has seen roaming about and she listens, curious.

"Excuse me, but do you know where I can find-I think she called them the darkangel books? My friend insisted my daughter _must_ read them." The woman is middle aged and well dressed.

"Dark-angel? Like _Twilight,_ or?" Maka hears the girl's gum smack and cringes. The attendant wears the standard _Evans_ polo and khakis, a mid height brunette of perhaps college age.

"I don't think so, no-she knows Miranda's read _Twilight_. Maybe-"

"Meredith Ann Pierce," Maka says, swiping at tears to be at least half way presentable. When both women swivel their gazes her way, clearly confused, she adds, "The Darkangel Trilogy is by Meredith Ann Pierce. _The Darkangel_ is the first book, then _A Gathering of Gargoyles,_ and _The Pearl of the Soul of the World_ is the last book. I'd get them together-once she picks them up, I doubt she'll put them down until the end. I couldn't." She blinks away another tear. So this is what has replaced her?

The attendant thanks her, and the two women move off to find the series in question.

Sighing, swiping at more tears, Maka turns her head, catching a flash of white, but there's nothing, so she gets up and takes a final look around. _Evans Books_ truly is lovely and inviting, but she'd been right, it has no soul, not yet. In her heart, she hopes it will grow one in time because the city, its people, and especially the children, all deserve that, even if it can't be hers and her mama's.

With that thought, she leaves to make the rest of the walk back home.

* * *

Soul is pacing, back and forth back and forth, boots squelching lightly on the rain soaked sidewalk. It's Valentine's Day, two days after her shop closed, and Maka isn't answering her messages, hasn't replied to him since yesterday night, but the final straw had been when she didn't show up to Liz's Valentine's Day party. He's _worried_.

"Dunno," Liz had shrugged off his casual inquiry. "She texted to say she couldn't make it a few hours ago." Then her eyes narrow, calculating. "Since when do you _care_?"

He'd been about to shrug this off as friendly inquiry when Patti interrupted. "She's sick. I was actually thinking about checkin' in on her but Crona is iffy on germs and I don't wanna leave 'em alone, so ya could do me a favor and do it for me."

The eyebrow waggle that had punctuated this otherwise innocuous request was wholly uncalled for.

"Fiiiiine." He'd used his most put upon tone that he fears had fooled exactly no one, Patti had given him directions, and now, here he is, in front of her building, elated and terrified and ready to grab the salt, desperately hoping it won't just rub into the wounds he's inadvertently inflicted.

Remembering her face two days ago doesn't help, red and tear streaked as she'd sat in the children's section and corrected his clearly inept employee.

Remembering her last messages helps less.

 _if u want a laugh my brother sent me roses for vday said i need the illusion of romance in my life_

 _Your brother sounds like an ass. And anyway, I prefer lilies._

 _noted i will make sure i get u lilies should the occasion arise_

 _I'm sorry I've been so down, it's just my store closed last night and I'm still trying to process. That's right-I own a store. Or owned. I know I never told you. It was a wonderful store, full of hope and light. And now it's just a painful memory, a thing to regret, like death and taxes._

Clearly that reeks of a willingness to forgive and forget.

Are the flowers too much? Don't friends bring sick friends flowers? Or does the fact it's Valentine's Day mean flowers are a _gesture_? It's not like they're roses. Soul nearly calls Killik, but abstains. He can manage this without advice; he _will_ manage this without advice; if he can't manage this without advice, then he surely doesn't deserve the chance at friendship he seeks.

There's soup, too, good chicken matzo ball from the Jewish deli on 42nd and Maveth. Soup for a sick friend is definitely a thing, that part he's sure of.

This is fucking _stupid_ , pacing the sidewalk in the rare desert rain shower with his arms full of flowers and soup like a total dweeb. He could just go home. Her apartment, it turns out, is less than a block from his own, so it's not like it's far. But no. He's resolved. He will follow through with his own wishes for once in his goddamn life.

Soul sucks in a breath. Time to do this thing, cross the bridge and see if she burns it. The worst that will happen is nothing changes; Bookworm still talks to PMan and Soul remains persona non grata, public enemy number one. He doesn't allow himself to hope for more.

Too bad hope is a fickle thing, and it lodges itself firmly in his chest as he walks up the steps to her building.

* * *

When she opens the door, Maka expects to find Patti, who has already threatened her with healing soup and foot rubs. What she finds is a very nervous looking Soul Evans, who greets her with a "Hey," and then edges his way into her apartment before she can even think to slam the door in his face. Not that she actually would. Probably.

The fact that he looks like some sort of model for an outerwear catalogue, standing there in the middle of her living room in a damp beanie, leather jacket, and dark jeans is just _unfair_ when she's sniffling and aching and hasn't been awake let alone out of bed for _hours_. Even getting up to answer the door has her winded.

And the reality that she herself must look like death warmed over, standing there in her fuzzy hello kitty pajamas and a purple bathrobe, hair slung in messy pigtails, is beyond dispute.

After blinking his way for a moment, Maka closes her front door. If there's going to be a scene, she'd prefer it not take place in view of the whole building.

"What-are you doing here?" she finally blurts out as she turns.

"I-brought you flowers?" He pulls a wrapped bundle from behind his back. "And, uh, soup?" He holds up a bag with his other hand.

"I-wow." What else can she say to such a thing? Soul Evans, in her living room, with soup and flowers, for _her_. She feels her own forehead, convinced she's having some sort of fever dream.

"You should sit." His brow crinkles in worry as he moves to her little dining table, puts down the soup, and pulls out a chair. She obliges because she's too sick and confused to argue, and after he unpackages and sets out the soup, he says, "And eat. Patti will kill me if you don't eat. I'll just, uh, put these in water."

Maka stares after him, shakes her head. "Patti sent you?"

"Mhm." He's bustling around her kitchen, dishes clattering as he hunts through her cabinets, and she feels like she's in an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ because why is Soul Evans _in her kitchen?_ He pokes his head out for a moment like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Um, where do you keep your vases anyway?"

"Top of the fridge," she mumbles then takes a spoonful of soup because it would be rude not to, even in a dream. It's delicious, so she keeps eating. "This is really good, thank you."

"Welcome." He's returned with her favorite vase, the Japanese porcelain decorated with cherry blossoms that had been mama's, loaded with several gorgeous lilies. "I'm glad you like it. It's my go to when I feel like shit, and Patti said you were sick, so." The shrug is small and sheepish. Somewhere along the way he's lost the beanie, and his white hair falls just above his eyes, unkempt in a way most models would envy.

Feeling even more a mess across from such unintentional perfection, Maka shifts her eyes, gazing longingly at the flowers. She can't smell well enough for a sniff and wishes she could. "I love lilies," she sighs out before spooning in another mouthful of soup.

"I know, you told me." All his normal boredom and flippancy is gone and he just sounds _careful_.

"I did?" She blinks. Has she ever had a conversation with him that didn't end in insults? Only the first, and she hadn't known any better back then.

"You did," he assures her.

This is all so strange. She spoons in more soup, her sore head feeling far too stuffed full of cotton to make any sense of it-his presence, the flowers, any of it.

 _Why is here?_ It's-yes, it's Valentine's Day! Shouldn't he-

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

His face goes blank and he shrugs. "Not really. Told you, Patti sent me."

"On Valentine's Day?" She can't help the scoff.

A shrug. "Sure, why not? Better than the party Liz forced me to attend on pain of choosing orange tuxedos for the groomsmen."

Her laugh is both involuntary and genuine. "You fell for that? Liz would rather die."

"I know." His smile is a bit conspiratorial and she feels suddenly warm. Clearly her fever is going back up. "But it wasn't worth getting shit from Wes for saying no."

"So checking on me was your out." She sobers quickly-how can she laugh with him after everything? "Of course." It's more bitter than she intends.

" _Of course._ Because I'm a terrible person who couldn't possibly give a shit about someone without an ulterior motive, I know."

"I never said-"

"No," he agrees. "But that's what you meant, right?"

Unable to deny it, she sighs. "Look, obviously-we haven't had the best interactions. I said some things last time I saw you that weren't okay, I know that, and I've felt bad about it since. It-wasn't a good night for me, and I was a jerk, so I'm sorry."

His expression is impassive, eyes seeking hers before he shakes his head. "It was my fault. I had no business invading your solitude. None. So if anyone should apologize, it's me."

Maka blinks at him. Can this be Soul Evans?

"You put me out of business," she says, because someone needs to remind them both of this important fact.

"I know." She can't read him, not at all. The impassive mask is too unshakeable. "And It wasn't-it wasn't personal, you know that, right? I didn't-" he's shaking his head again, at a loss for words, as if _he_ were the one whose life had been ruined, not her. Indignation swells in her chest.

"You didn't _what?_ Think you were hurting anyone? Mean to put me out of business? But you did, and that's personal whether you admit it or not. To me, and to a lot of other people, it's not just business, it's _personal_."

Soul Evans looks stricken at that and Maka _just doesn't get it._ "You're right. And I get that you hate me for it. You've got every right, I know that. I just wish..."

A wave of dizziness hits her, hard, and she sighs, causing him to trail off. Her mind is so hazy, and this fever dream has gone on for far too long. She needs to get back into bed. Standing, she grabs up the vase in front of her. "Look, my head is fuzz. I feel awful. I need to rest, so I'm going to rest, okay?"

The water sloshes as she shuffles her way into her bedroom, Soul Evans hot on her heels. She puts the flowers on her nightstand and gets into bed, surprised as he tucks the covers up around her with a worried frown. It's all just so surreal.

"Why are you here again?" she can't help but ask as the room spins and his brow creases.

"I wanted to make amends," he says as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Oh." _Strange_.

"I know-I know that isn't possible, but you understand I had to try?"

Her head nods, she feels it, but making sense of his words is difficult. To make amends? Is that really what he wants? Why _would_ he?

"Can I ask you something?"

Another nod.

"You were meeting someone, that night at the cafe. What happened with him?"

"Nothing," she sighs.

"But you like him." His gaze is so searching it makes her shiver.

"I do."

"Then why nothing? Why isn't he here taking care of you?" There's an implication there, that this is what people who care about each other _should_ do.

"I-" she falters. "I mean-" she owes no one an explanation, him least of all, yet the words come anyway. "I've never actually met him." Maka hides her face in her hands, expecting his derision every second. It never comes.

"I noticed you're pretty attached to your phone. Skype, right?"

Her hands lower and she nods. "Yeah," she breathes out, head still swimming, "how'd you know?"

The barest shrug. "Call it a hunch. I'm happy for you, I really am. You deserve good things, Maka Albarn, even if-even if I'll never be the one you'd accept them from." His eyes are so warm. Were they always this warm? Maybe, she thinks. "But-" he pauses, searching her own eyes for she knows not what. "I know I'm the last person you want advice from, but sometimes you've gotta just-go for it-grab the salt. You should meet him."

 _What?_

"I hardly think I should be taking advice from someone who-"

His hand flies so near her mouth he's just short of touching it, fingers hovering barely shy, so close she can feel the warmth they radiate.

"I know I bring out your inner asshole," he says, voice low, gaze intense. "But let me just stop you from saying something that will continue to torment you with guilt and regret."

An instant later, he's standing, and his words remind her so much of PMan that her heart clinches.

"You should rest," he says softly, and the look he gives is almost fond. "Wouldn't want you to miss the desert spring."

And then he's gone and she's left alone and reeling, because who is that man and what has he done with the real Soul Evans?

Whoever he is, he's right-she _should_ rest. Closing her eyes, she soon dreams of Pianoman. In the morning, head far more clear, Maka will marvel and then groan that in place of the amorphous shape he usually takes in her slumber, PMan now wears Soul Evans' face.


	7. Shall We Dance?

Maka keeps running into Soul Evans, as she has for months, but lately, she doesn't hate it. In truth, she enjoys their little chats, and she has to constantly remind herself that being cordial doesn't mean she has to _like_ him.

It really doesn't help that her subconscious keeps using his face every time she dreams of PMan; the amorphous blank he had once occupied in her mind is now filled by Soul's odd, model good looks.

Today, she's at _Marie's_ getting her morning coffee and there he is, three people behind. Soul looks as tired as he always does so early in the morning, and based on his overpriced suit, he must be on his way to work. _Soul_. When has she begun to think of him this way?

After that day a month ago, she recalls, when Patti sent him over because she was sick. When he'd brought her soup and flowers and said he wanted to make amends. When she was well again and really considered it, she had asked herself what type of a person would shut him down and not even not let him try?

That isn't who she is. It certainly isn't the person she wants to be, so when they met again a few days later, bumping into each other at the grocery store, she'd forced a smile and said hello and somehow, someway, he'd ended up walking her home. It wasn't in the slightest bit unpleasant.

That had been the first time, but she's run into him often since. Today is the third time she's seen him at _Marie's_ this week alone, and yesterday, she noticed him at the farmer's market and struck up a conversation. The more time she spends with him, the more she finds she likes being around him. He's got a quiet, sarcastic wit that she enjoys, yet there's a warmth there too that, forcing herself to see him through fresh eyes, she also appreciates. He's _genuine_. Yes, he wears an apathetic mask for the world, but she finds as she observes that he takes it off for her most of the time, and she likes that, too. Maybe too much, all things considered.

As he sits at her table, she's neither surprised nor does she actually mind.

"I've been meaning to ask," she says as she nibbles on a blueberry muffin, this one purchased on her own dime, "how Crona's doing. I saw them yesterday, but they won't say how things are going at work-I think they're afraid of hurting my feelings."

"That's, kind of understandable." He scratches the back of his head, looking sheepish. "But they're pretty much amazing. Since they started, they've completely revolutionized the children's department."

"Really?" She tilts her head, genuinely curious. Crona only worked for her for a few months, but they were bright and eager and soaked in everything they could. If they're happy and thriving in their new job, Maka can only be pleased.

"Definitely." He takes a sip of coffee, then continues. "They run weekly paid employee seminars where they review the latest releases plus a backlog of favorite authors to make sure everyone is knowledgeable, and we've got an employee favorite shelf and an author of the month display. And they're getting in guest readers for story hour that really have people excited. I'm honestly thinking about having them draw up some ideas to implement the same in other stores."

"That sounds-wonderful." She means it. "It was really-really good of you to hire them after." She picks at her muffin, uncomfortable. They generally keep a wide berth around all topics relating to her store. "Well, you know."

"Ah." He looks nervous and unhappy, his hand once again on the back of his neck. "Honestly, your shop has such a good rep that we would have hired anyone who was willing."

"Even still," she insists. "It's huge for Crona, so thank you." It's strange, in a way, that she means it, that she thanks the one who had essentially taken Crona's job for giving them a new one, but objectively, she knows this is for the best. Maka's little shop had been a way out, sure, but it was also a dead end. _Evans_ offers the opportunity to build _so much more._ Plenty of people would have passed on the shy, soft spoken Crona, with their neutral gender preference and odd mannerisms. The fact Soul has clearly embraced them instead _means_ something.

"Uh, sure. Happy they took the job." He looks so uncomfortable she takes mercy, asking about progress on his brother's wedding, and soon enough, it's time for him to go.

That she actually regrets he can't stay longer is a feeling she quickly quashes. Giving him a chance is one thing, but Maka refuses to regret the absence of the man who ruined her life.

Only, it's not ruined, that's the thing. Not even close. But _still_.

She puzzles over this reality back home and working on her book proposal a few hours later as she chats with Pianoman and he asks how she's doing. It's an innocent question with no easy answers.

 _I'm actually really good. It's sort of surreal. I mean, it's only been a month since the shop closed, but I'm as busy as I ever was running it, and while it makes me sad to think about it as something that's in the past, I love what I'm doing now._

There is barely a pause before he's typing. Even more than before, when PMan talks to her, she seems to have his full attention-if he might be delayed in responding, he's careful to tell her. Maybe he feels guilt over standing her up, Maka doesn't know, but he's made it abundantly clear he still cares for her deeply. His current response, as usual, suggests that he is always paying attention when it comes to her words.

 _u said u might try writing_

The thought of what she's doing now makes her smile as she responds.

 _I'm working on it. But it's more than that. Remember when you told me to go to the mattresses?_

His own response comes a bare instant later.

 _yeaaaaaah_

Maka's smile widens. He's changed her life and he deserves to know that.

 _Well, I wrote a letter to the editor about everything and it got a lot of attention. And the letter mentioned my blog because I was posting a copy there. My blog was never a big deal, I just posted random things like reviews and recs and stuff about living in DC, you know, nothing important. I started updating about the shop, and people were following there, and it sort of snowballed. Now I have hundreds of thousands of followers and I've moved to a format that I can monetize hits since one of my friends suggested it. For whatever reason, people actually want to know what I think about books and the city, so I'm getting enough hits to make some money, it's crazy! It didn't bring in business for the shop like I wanted but it's becoming my livelihood. It keeps me busy too, since I really do love finding new books and spots to blog about._

A long pause as he reads and processes, probably. There's a lot that's close to personal detail there, but she doesn't care if he knows who she is; she wants him to know. Losing the shop put things into perspective, and all this anonymity is silly if they care about each other, which they clearly do. At this point, the boundaries she respects are for him.

 _wow all that because i quoted the godfather_

It's not just that, she thinks, but it's certainly one of the central catalysts.

 _Because you gave good advice, yep. And since the blog is getting so much attention and because I know a lot of people in publishing, I'm getting book offers too, isn't that crazy? I got asked to do a book chronicling the shop and the battle with the big bad corporate monster, and two more publishers offered me advances to write a children's book._

Another quick response.

 _r u going 2_

Biting her lip, she nods to herself as she types her answer.

 _I've always wanted to write, so I'm definitely going to, it's just so weird. Remember months ago when you asked if I ever wished my life was different? I never really did, or I guess I was afraid to because I wasn't unhappy, but I feel like, I don't know, like maybe this is what I should have been doing all along. I loved the shop. I miss the shop. But writing, it feels like the piece that's been missing all along, it feels right._

The reality that a month later she can think and talk about the shop fondly, without the urge to burst into tears, that the little knot of sadness in her heart grows less each day, is testament to that. And even her mama's legacy lives on in a way since her blog had been named for the shop.

 _im glad. u deserve 2b happy_

This is something she knows, and Maka is working on it, but she also knows he can't say the same. The thing is, he deserves happiness, too, but lately he seems more and more resigned to the impossibility somehow.

 _Do you still think you wish you'd taken a different path?_

He must not even pause to think, the response instant.

 _only every damn day_

Maybe that means she can be his catalyst, too. She'd like that, to be the one who helps change his life for the better the same way he's changed hers.

 _Then maybe you should try to do something about it. You deserve to be happy, too._

Another quick response gives her hope.

 _not sure that's true but maybe ill try_

 _I'll cheer you on the whole way!_ Maka wants to ask what his dream is, but she won't, won't cross any lines into the personal he doesn't cross himself. So instead she asks:

 _You'll keep me posted when you do, right?_

 _always_

Her heart flutters at that. For someone who can be so guarded, PMan hasn't been shy of late making it clear that she's important to him. She's about to respond when a new message comes up.

 _with everything going good u still hate the asshole who fucked over ur shop?_

The question is wholly unexpected.

 _Honestly? Not really. We have some friends in common, and I feel like he's really trying to be cordial, and when I can separate him as a person from him as the guy who owns the competition that killed my store, I find I don't mind him. So I'm really trying to be cordial, too, for the sake of my friends and my own conscience, I guess. I'm not proud of what happened -_ Maka starts to type that night at the cafe, thinks better, and corrects- _before_.

His response is also unexpected. She had thought PMan might question this shift in her perception, but he doesn't.

 _ah thats good im glad things with that r better 4 u 2. got 2 go actually work 4 a bit l8r_

With that, he's gone, and Maka is left alone with her thoughts. Is she glad things are better?

The fact she doesn't know may be the most unexpected thing of all.

* * *

Soul keeps running into Maka Albarn. And if he has some idea of her schedule and it's at least half planned on his part, well, can he really be blamed for enjoying her company?

Because he _does_ enjoy her company. He'd started this whole thing unsure; he knows he feels things, but feeling them for Bookworm and feeling them for Maka might not be the same. Yes, he went into this wanting to make things better, to not be the enemy, but he'd never been certain his feelings would hold through the strain of live interaction.

The thing is, he thinks as he sits cross legged on his bed petting Blair with one hand as he attempts to write out the song that's been plaguing him since that night at her apartment with the other, it's no strain at all-Soul looks forward to time with her as much as he's ever looked forward to her messages, and his feelings, if anything, grow the more he's around her in the flesh. She's smart, and funny, and stubborn, and amazing, and how could he have ever thought otherwise? How could he not have seen her for who she is from the start?

But of course, things are rarely so simple. Really, if Maka doesn't yet see PMan and Soul Evans as a single entity, he probably never stood a chance.

Sometimes, Soul just wants to tell her. Hell, he always just wants to tell her, but he's so afraid she'll cut him off the moment he does that he flounders. Maybe-maybe if they reach a point when she sees him as a friend and not just someone she tolerates, maybe then he can lay it all on the table, tell her everything and hope it doesn't make her hate him all over again.

Is it pathetic that hearing she tolerates him for her friends' sake had made hope soar in his sad little heart?

He knows it is, but he really doesn't care if in the end it means she stays a part of his life.

Still- _still_ -hope has overwhelming guilt to contend with because Maka Albarn hates liars and he's the biggest, fattest liar in her life.

Blair meows her discontent that he's stilled his hand in her fur and Soul gives her a final pet. He needs to get dressed, anyway. He might be deceiving Maka by omission, but he intents to keep his word in whatever ways he can.

PMan had told Bookworm he would try to follow the path he's always wished he could, so that's exactly what he's going to do.

His last audition had been for a renowned classical orchestra after grad school, and he'd miserably botched it. Looking back, it was as much self sabotage as anything-up all night, three cups of coffee before, he'd played like the rankest amature. Even with the Evans name, they'd passed him over, and his parents had gotten him a place in a far less prestigious orchestra unheard.

That lasted for as long as it took his parents to realize his music career was going nowhere, which wasn't all that long, and Soul has been head of the recently created retail division of Evans, Inc. ever since.

Ignoring the second annoyed meow as he gets up, Soul starts getting ready. For her part, Blair takes the hint, glossy black fur shining under the electric lights of his bedroom as she walks slowly to the door, tail raised, head held high. Her fur is as beautiful as always, a black so deep it shines purple. He'd found it mesmerizing in the shelter; it's why he'd chosen her. His first real act of defiance or rebellion or independence maybe, when he'd gotten an apartment in his second year of college was to get the cat his mother would never let him have at home. The second had been to get a roommate. Such acts were petty shows in the end as he'd still followed their wishes in every way that mattered. Today is the day he will finally pursues his own, because he owes it to himself and to Bookworm both to actually try.

Dark jeans, a red button up, hair managed, he figures he looks presentable enough as he shuffles on his leather jacket. He'd take Etta, but really, it's close enough to walk and it will do his nerves good to move.

Ten minutes later, he's arrived at the steps of a small jazz club and realizes he recognizes it. It's a brick building, with apartments above, but the club occupies the first two floors, unassuming but for the silver sign with black letters above an unadorned door. _Brooklyn Devils_. Perhaps it's fitting that the place Killik has managed to get him an audition with is the very same place he'd dragged his brother to three years ago, where a little known local jazz singer named Elizabeth Thompson had taken the stage, where his brother had bought her a drink and lost his heart somewhere between hearing her sing and taking her home.

This place had changed his brother's life, so he figures it's as good a place as any to try changing his own as he walks up the steps and through the door.

* * *

The wedding had been beautiful, and since the bride had no family to speak of other than her sister, Maka somehow ended up in the front row. There were flowers everywhere, Patti was radiant as the maid of honor in red, Wes Evans, who she still hasn't managed to meet officially, was dashing in his glossy designer tuxedo, and Liz looked absolutely gorgeous in a designer gown that Maka is positive cost more than her papa's Italian sports car.

And then there had been Soul, standing next to his brother in a similarly glossy black tux, red shirt bringing out his eyes which had remained inexplicably fixed in her direction during a good chunk of the whole affair. The fact she'd been looking at him enough to notice probably meant he'd noticed she was also staring, and Maka isn't sure anymore who was staring at who, though she's positive he looks better in that tux than any actual living, breathing person has any right to.

She tries not to think too hard on it as she stands in line at the open bar for a drink, because she surely needs one.

Having obtained a glass of what must be ridiculously expensive champagne, Maka weaves her way through wedding guests, who weave their way through delicacies in this rather large pre reception space, indulging in the most decadent cocktail hour she's ever seen at a wedding. Actually, she's not even sure the last time she went to a wedding-Kim and Jackie, maybe, several years back, but this one is definitely the fanciest one she's ever been to. There are more flowers than she could stuff into her apartment in this rooftop garden/cocktail area alone, and it's weaved through with silk and lights. It's _gorgeous_.

Apparently, the Evanses don't do anything by halves. Certainly they've got the money to spare.

The mix of emotions their name brings up is a cocktail she doesn't care to down just now, so Maka takes a rather large swig of champagne and, just as she lowers the glass from her mouth, now empty, Patti glomps her from the side. She'd probably be doused in champagne if she hadn't just finished it, so she blesses her luck this once and returns the side hug.

"Pictures are _finally_ done! Great party, yeah?" Her enthusiasm is contagious and Maka returns the wide smile and a thumbs up amidst the buzz of other guests.

"Really great! I can't believe this is only the cocktail hour-I think I spotted a prime rib carving station on my way in."

"Oh, yeah! They brought in some schmancy, big name caterer from LA, but Marie still did deserts, Liz insisted." Of course she had. Marie had adopted Liz and Patti both when Kid did. Family is Family wherever you find it, that's a lesson Maka had learned long ago. "But can ya believe Crona's mom tried to muscle in? I'm still ste-"

"Wait, _what?_ What did Medusa Gordon _do_ , I swear-"

"Maks, Maaaaks." Patti squeezes her arm. "That's what I'm tryna _tell ya._ She didn't do shit because Crona didn't let her do shit. Maddie came into _Evans_ weeks ago I guess, all big as usual, cornered Crona and started in on all the same ol' crap-how they're nothing, a worthless child, whatever. How they were doomed to fail if they didn't come back to her and if they'd talk to their new bosses about hiring Gorgon Occasions to help with the wedding, she'd be willing to take 'em back, yadda yadda."

The more Patti speaks, the more Maka's stomach clichés in horror. Medusa "Maddie" Gorgon is the premier wedding planner in DC, so the Evanses going with some big shot out of LA had probably been a slap in the face. Of course she'd try to use poor Crona to muscle in on the action! Maka should have seen it coming, should have-

Patti surprises her by grabbing her hand and unknotting her tightly clenched fist.

"Breathe. Crona's fine, ya know I woulda grabbed ya the second they weren't, right? Ya've just been busy with all yer new writing stuff, and I didn't wanna bug ya. And ya _gotta_ listen, cause Crona was baaaawse."

People still mill about them, oblivious to her turmoil, her personal sense of failure. She must be the worst friend, not to have heard about this until weeks later.

"What-happened?" she manages to get out, still somewhat stunned.

"Well, Crona just stood tall, and told their mom to get bent."

Maka is skeptical and it shows. This doesn't sound like Crona _at all._

 _"_ _Really?"_

Pat laughs. "Okay, maybe not like _that_ , maybe more like 'I don't wanna go back or to see ya, please leave,' but the point is, they stood up to her, and then called security and had her thrown out on her ass. I'm _so proud._ " She's grinning like the Cheshire Cat and Maka's still a bit stunned by this news, but nods her agreement because that's _huge_.

"That's great. I'm so _glad_." And she is, she's relieved, but also a bit hurt.

"But you should have told me, I would have-"

Another shoulder squeeze. "Maks, ya've got enough on yer plate, yer building a whole new life! Ya don't have to take on everyone's everything all the time, ya know? We gotcha." It still feels wrong, but she nods slowly. "And anyway, Soul banned Maddie from _Evans,_ so Crona won't have to worry about her showing up at work anymore."

"He-did?" Maka blinks.

"'Course he did. I told him all about what happened after he hired Crona, cause I knew Soul'd look out for 'em, ya know? He didn't hesitate a hot second. After Maddie was thrown out, he put her on the ban list like nothin'."

"Huh." It's the only sound her brain thinks to make at this latest development. Sure, she's long since come to see Soul as more than just a suit-their frequent and, at this point, even semi-planned encounters over the past two months have shown her that he's inherently decent-but he's still a shrewd business type, and pissing off someone like Maddie Gorgon can't be good for business.

Soul Evans _cares_ about people, he really does. Maybe he's a cynic, and that care is limited to those people who come into his field of view, but it's absolutely there. How had she managed to miss that for so long?

"Come on, let's go find Kiddo and the rest and raid the prime rib before they start assigning seats!" Patti drags her along, and Maka's content to be dragged. She wonders if they'll run into the best man along the way and finds herself looking forward to it.

* * *

Soul has always hated weddings and this one really isn't an exception. Too many people making too many cloying social niceties. At least the food is passable, and the music's good so far, even if it is only the end of cocktail hour. Still, if he weren't the best man, he'd already have left.

Only, he thinks as his eyes roam the rooftop garden, liting on a fitted black dress, ash blond curls, and long, long legs in the distance, he knows that's not true. He'd have stayed for the chance to talk to _her._ The reality that he intends to play for her, too, hits him again and he feels suddenly nauseous.

"You keep looking at my little girl like you're dying of thirst and she's the biggest glass of water you've ever seen." His thoughts are rudely interrupted as a man sits down next to him at one of the little garden tables scattered about. "Haven't you hurt her enough?"

Soul snorts at this, leveling a bored stare at the interloper, because Bookworm has told him all about her father and none of it is any kind of good.

"That's rich coming from the bastard who abandoned her."

There's a flash of pain, rippling across expressive features and through green eyes far too reminiscent of his daughter's for comfort.

The man sighs and looks defeated.

"Do you know what the real kick in the balls is? I mean aside from you sniffing around like she's some big juicy bone."

Since Soul refuses to dignify that with an answer, Spirit Albarn continues without one.

"I didn't actually abandon her."

"Sure," Soul scoffs. "And I didn't put her out of business. Tell me another one, because that's the funniest shit I've heard all night."

The shrug is casual, devoid of anger. "You don't have to believe me. And I wouldn't want Maka to know even if you did-I'd die myself before tarnishing her memory of her mother-but Kamika vanished after the divorce. I didn't know where they went for years, and by the time I did-well, she was already dying."

"You can't be serious." The guy is clearly delusional.

"Like I said, I really don't care you believe me."

"Why the fuck are you even telling me this?" he snaps, because seriously, what the fuck is this guy on about?

The man just shrugs again, then swipes at a stray strand of flaming hair that's fallen across his eyes. "Honestly? I don't know. You just look sort of pathetic and I felt sorry for you, I guess." He sighs. "My angel has a big heart, but she doesn't forgive easily. She's never forgiven me. Do you think, if she can't forgive her own father, that the man who killed her mother's legacy has any shot with her? I thought it was the kind thing to let you know." The man gets up at that, chair sliding back noisily, and Soul is far from sorry to see him go.

Oh yeah, he's sure the old bastard's motives are entirely altruistic. Still, the fact he'd let Maka hate him rather than hurt her even more with the truth-if that is, indeed the truth-the guy really does love his daughter. Has Soul ever loved anyone so much? Enough to put their feelings above his own?

He realizes he has-he _does_. If he knew how to put her feelings first, if he had to destroy his own heart to ensure her happiness, he would. A thousand times over he would. But he doesn't know, and so they hover in this limbo, edging an odd sort of friendship in one space and deeply entwined in another. There is no going back to two dimensional villain, not anymore, and sometimes he wonders if he had stayed a mere muffin stealing, garnish heaping, empty suit to her, if she, at least, would be better off for it. Because eventually, _eventually,_ this equilibrium will crumble, and it is her pain he fears most of all.

* * *

Over two hours later, they are in an enormous multi story ballroom. The ceiling is high, gilded, and adorned with replicas of the Sistine chapel. The chairs are all plush red velvet, probably brought in to match Liz's color scheme. There are so many flowers and so much draped silk it might fill up Maka's building instead of just her apartment. And there are servers _everywhere_ , attending to the needs of the hundreds upon hundreds of invited guests.

To say she feels the slightest bit out of place in such grandeur is an understatement.

Even still, she's managed to largely avoid her papa and have some fun with her friends, so it's overall been a decent night so far.

The couple of the evening has long since been introduced as Mr. and Mrs., the formal, multi course dinner is over, the chamber orchestra that had serenaded the meal is on break, and it's time for speeches. Patti's is sweet and just a little crude, drawing laughs from half the crowd and some raised eyebrows from the other half. The Evans elders, sitting at their own table near the one set up for the bride and groom, tall and proud and above it all, sport altogether different looks. The mother of the groom, a thin, severe looking woman who is nonetheless quite beautiful, with white hair and a perpetual frown, looks very little short of annoyed, while the groom's father, a balding, greying man who still manages to look aristocratically handsome even in his sixties, seems to be trying to evoke severity while biting back a smile.

Maka guesses, even at a glance, that they hadn't been easy to grow up with and wonders that the Evans boys managed to turn out so relatively _normal_. Then again, Maka has overcome having a philandering papa who abandoned her young, and PMan often spoke of his uptight, controlling mom, so she knows people can get past these things. She's glad that Wes and Soul have also managed to overcome.

Then again, she considers as Soul takes the stage, his turn as best man clearly having arrived, she's awfully judgmental towards two people she's never actually met. Her experience with Soul Evans himself really should have taught her better.

The fact he walks past the microphone to the piano recently abandoned by the chamber orchestra surprises her. Soul mentioned being nervous about the whole speech thing when they'd ended up having lunch a few days ago, but had said nothing about piano.

"So, erm," he says into a microphone set up next to the instrument. "I know the best man is supposed to give a speech and all, but I've always been sh-bad with words, I know a decent chunk of you are aware of that, so since Liz and Wes were cool with it, I decided I'd play instead. Liz and Wes have something that-well, something I think everyone wishes they could have. And this song represents that, though it was inspired by-" he bites his lip, seemingly thinking better of whatever he'd been about to say. She must be imagining that his eyes flit her way, stunned by this new knowledge that _Soul Evans plays piano. "_ -anyway this is for them, and for-yeah."

"Play us a song, Pianoman!" Wes Evans says into the mic set up for the bride and groom, and Soul goes absolutely scarlet for the barest instant, eyes flashing panic, before leaning away from the mic.

The moniker stuns her, but before it can coalesce into any sort of sense, he begins to play, and Maka is swept away.

These are feelings in sound, that's the only way she can describe it. Dark at first, monotonous, resigned, but then it all changes, a light replaces the darkness, a sweetness, a hope, and they intertwine to make a rich, complex whole. Not perfect sweetness, but all the better for it.

Is this how Soul Evans views love? That this must come from within, from a place that is deep and real is undeniable.

Maka thinks of PMan and wonders if this is possible for her. She hopes it is. Though the idea Soul Evans has found it with some unnamed _someone_ claws at her in a way it has no business doing, in a way she will not acknowledge, and when the song ends, she ignores the poignant ache it leaves as he exits the stage. His own relief is palpable, stiffness in his shoulders easing, his blank mask firmly in place as he returns to the table where he'd been sitting with his parents during dinner.

The festivities move on and Maka is both sorry and relieved to put that song behind her, refusing to think further on it as much as she suspects it will haunt her later.

Next comes dancing, the first dance of the bride and groom, then a dance for the wedding party and parents. Liz, of course, has none, so Kid had stood for her, and he dances with Marie who has also stood for her, Patti and Soul on the floor nearby as the Best Man and Maid of Honor. Maka can't help but wonder if she's the one he played for, a spike of something hot and wrong running through her at the thought she quashes quickly. If that's the case, well, good for them both. Though Patti has never shown much interest in romance, if it's something she wants and she's found it with Soul, she will be happy for them, whatever's happened in the past and whatever weird friendship she's struck up with her former enemy. Though she also notes he seems pretty stiff and uncomfortable for a man dancing with the love of his life, so maybe not.

This dance ends and the floor opens and she takes the break to find the hall, to text PMan. He, too, is at some party, and as usual, he's less than pleased with this fact.

 _Wedding is going pretty well_. She messages. _Heard someone play piano and thought of you, it was really beautiful. Maybe you could send me music sometime?_

There's little hesitation before his response

 _yeah maybe. it was really that good?_

Allowing herself no reflection, she answers quickly.

 _It was amazing, honestly, yeah. How's your party?_

Another quick response.

 _meh got roped into dancing my toes are numb_

Her laugh is louder than she means, and two guests give her a look as they pass.

 _At least it wasn't me, I'm a terrible dancer. You'd be lucky to have toes left!_

A minute passes, then.

 _id gladly sacrifice my toes 2 dance with u_

A hot flush takes her and then Patti is right there, toe tapping in annoyance. "There you are! They're gonna throw the stuff, ya need to get yer ass back!"

Patti grabs her elbow, dragging her mercilessly as she barely manages to type out:

 _Got 2 go l8r_

It's as much as she can manage one handed before they're back in the ballroom, men and women of all ages huddled en mass looking varying degrees of excited or put out.

Shoved into place by Pat, Maka watches as the announcer, who has dubbed himself MC Killik, pulls Liz forward. He's dark, handsome, and wears a snazzy blue suit.

"It's time, all you singles looking to mingle. The bride has been so gracious as to agree to give up this lovely bridal bouquet-" The MC holds up the bouquet to show it off. Though it looks just like the one Liz had held in the church, Maka knows from Pat it's an exact duplicate, the original to be confiscated for careful preservation "-hopefully, a bit of her luck will rub off on the rest of you! Can I get a drumroll please?"

Somewhere from the stage, a drumroll sounds. Liz turns her back on the crowd with an exaggerated wink, but not before a long look. As the drumroll sound, she throws, mercifully far from where Maka stands, only to smack one Soul Evans in the face with an array of red and white roses. He looks shocked as he clutches the thing, eyes darting around in clear and abject horror. A laugh bubbles in her throat. This should be good-and as much as she's come not to hate him at all, she thinks he might just deserve the mild social discomfort he's about to endure.

"Soul Evans, brother of the groom, ladies and gentleman!" The scowl Soul levels at the self styled MC could melt plastic.

"And now, for the groom!" Wes Evans struts over from the gathered spectators like he owns the place. He probably does, Maka decides, as the tall blond takes his place in front of his new wife. Hands on her hips, she stares down at him expectantly, and music starts to play. It sounds vaguely porny, and Maka recognizes it as an old Beatles tune, "I Want You." As the groom shimmies down to his knees in front of Liz, she shakes her head with a small laugh. At least they aren't taking things _too_ seriously.

Of course, there's a thin line between playful and pornographic and Maka isn't certain it hasn't been crossed as the groom lifts his new wife's dress, slowly, sensually pushing it up her calf to her knee before disappearing under it completely. Liz starts giggling uncontrollably, an involuntary "Ohmigod, Wes, stop," shrieking out before the groom reemerges from under her skirt with a rather ornate looking garter clenched firmly between his teeth.

The crowd gives an obligatory laugh, though Maka suspects, if she could see her, she'd find looking Mama Evans less than amused. Then there's another drumroll, and Wes Evans is swinging the garter around like a lasso, pacing the crowd.

When he turns his back, the drumroll stops, and Maka feels a shove from the left, careening her into the person next to her and, to her horror, the garter hurtles towards her face. Her reflexes have always been good. In this case, she mildly curses them as her hands fly up involuntarily to save her face from fabric and come away clutching the garter.

"Ah, is that-it is!" MC Killik sounds far too amused. "Maka Albarn, everyone! We have our chosen singles!"

There are some mixed noises coming from the crowd, annoyance, amusement, surprise, that Maka doesn't like at all as Pat takes her arm and steers her towards the spotlight, the fiend. She's well aware of who must have shoved her. Patti gives her a thumbs up as she's deposited next to the MC. For his part, Soul has been steered by his brother to the other side. Meeting his eyes for a second, his expression is entirely unreadable, that aloof mask he so often wears impenetrable.

"Alright, now the lucky pair will seal their status at inheritors of the Bride and Groom with the ritual replacing of the garter. Since you caught it, Maka-can I call you Maka?"

"Sure." Her tone is light but she hates the scrutiny, hates being put on display, hates the eager looks of strangers as she scans the crowd. Everyone in the room surely knows about the retail war between her and the man who had caught the bouquet, and now, here they are for the viewing pleasure of all and sundry, the encounter anticipated by a crowd who can't know they've made amends. Well, time to change that. They won't be getting the blood they falsely smell, not tonight or ever. There's been quite enough of that.

"Alright, Maka." The MC has grabbed the bouquet and is backing away, leaving the two of them in the center of the dance floor alone where all of this has taken place. "I need you to face Soul, and once the music starts up, you can put the garter on him however you please." How a person manages to insert an eyebrow waggle into their tone so clearly she will never know. "Then, once the garter is in place, it's time for a dance to seal the luck in love you've been gifted by the couple of the night. Are you both ready?" he says from where he now stands at the edge of the stage.

Their eyes meet and they nod. Soul smiles reassuringly, the smallest tilt of his lips, the tiniest crack in that mask, and she smiles back, and then, there's music.

Really porny music. Lady Gaga croons out "Lovegame" to the beat, and now the whole room is sure to associate her with Soul Evans' disco stick.

The fact she has gone scarlet is beyond dispute, and he doesn't look much better standing several feet away, mask in place but red eyes conveying a million nuanced emotions she has no idea how to read.

Maka squares her shoulders. If the vultures want a show, then she will bloody well give them one, and they can all be damned.

Strutting with flourish, she makes her way to him, trying and probably failing to stick to the beat. As she finds herself a mere few inches in front of him, she offers a sultry smile and suddenly he looks a little like a deer caught in headlights. Well, good. If he's shocked, then so will everyone else be.

Slowly, she slings the garter around one finger and then it's moving with her hand down her body, a sensual journey as she lowers herself into a crouch. When she reaches the vicinity of his knees, she moves the garter forward until it's lightly touching the leg of his pants, the fabric of the garter the only thing grazing his clothes. She lets it move up up up slowly as she does the same, the sultry look never leaving her face.

Maka ignores the hoots and hollers and Blake shouting, "Give it to him, Maks!" somewhere in the background, channeling every teasing scene in every movie she's ever seen, done with it all. There's something else there, too, a fire that burns within as brightly as the red of his eyes as she continues to hold his gaze, though that's a feeling she can't name, or maybe won't. It's reflected by him in more than the color of his eyes as well as the garter trails up his leg, past the hem of his coat, and up his chest. She stops it for a moment somewhere in the region of his heart, grin widening at his slack jaw, at something that looks suspiciously like raw hunger in his eyes, and then it's quickly up up up to his head, and before he or anyone can protest, she's pulled him down enough by one shoulder with her free hand to twist it into his soft white locks in a sort of haphazard man bun.

Stepping back, she grins at him and the world, feeling satisfied with the shocked expressions quickly morphing into laughter.

MC Killik exclams, "Maka Albarn and Soul Evans, ladies and gentlemen," and she takes a flourished bow as Soul actually grins at her and curtsies her way.

Then the orchestra strikes up, the lights dim, the spotlight focuses on them, and it's time to dance.

"Shall we?" She holds out a hand as she recognizes "Shall We Dance?" has begun to play, her old musical loving heart lighting up at the choice. It feels somehow fitting.

He nods as he takes her hand, and his smile is soft for an instant. Maka almost feels sorry for him as he positions himself, other hand floating to her waist as he grips the hand she's offered-he's about to discover what anyone who knows her well finds out pretty quickly-she's a terrible dancer.

Actually, she's a terrible dancer in general, yes, but she can at least manage with the regular club style gyrations. Panic floods her as his positioning registers. Ballroom dancing she can't do in any form. She usually slow dances middle school style, her hands on her partner's shoulder, their hands on her waist, the few times she's bothered at all.

Her eyes find his and he must read her panic because his brow furrows in concern. _I don't know how to do this,_ she mouths and understanding floods his eyes. His own mouth dips as he shifts to hold her more closely, breath hot on her ear as he says, "Don't worry, I'll lead, you'll be fine."

The warmth of his breath makes her shiver as she nods understanding and lets him lead her through the motions of the type of simple waltz she's never even attempted to master. So close, she can smell his cologne, something spicy and earthy, intoxicating.

His movements are both elegant and economical. It's clear that he knows exactly what he's doing as he guides them through the dance, and Maka finds it almost easy, to let him lead, to trust that he won't let her make a fool of herself as they glide about the floor.

She lets herself get lost in it, the music, the movement, the warmth of his hand on her waist and in her palm, the warmth of his eyes as they lock with hers and the heady smell of his cologne, lets herself forget that he's Soul Evans and she's Maka Albarn, that they had hated each other once, that she's stepped on his toes a good half a dozen times, and that they are being watched by hundreds of pairs of eyes. She lets herself get lost in _him_ and finds it feels real and true and right, and she wishes, for an instant, that their paths had been different.

"I really liked your song," she says suddenly.

There's surprise for an instant, then a light shrug beneath her hand on his shoulder.

"Thanks. I'm glad. And you're doing fine, just so you know. Definitely getting my toes less than Patti did."

"Thanks, um, I think." Maka laughs, a slight titter, and an instant later, the song is over and the orchestra fades off into something blaring from the sound system. It's a faster song, something she likes and can actually handle, "Hella Good" by No Doubt, so before he can protest, before he can walk off, she tugs him towards her and says, "I love this song-wanna?"

His shrug and slight smile is answer enough and before she knows it, she's danced with Soul Evans half the night, past cake cutting and dessert. This may be the weirdest mix she's ever heard at a reception, what with the chamber orchestra playing music at some points and the MC spinning tunes at others, but it works somehow, and the room has largely cleared when she finally decides it's well past time to go. She tells him she's ready to leave, thanks him for dancing, and makes her way across the room.

Kid and Blake are among the last on the floor, along with Crona and Patti, and Kid has somehow managed to keep Blake in check all night, a minor miracle in and of itself. Love is strange, she decides as she approaches.

The bride and groom have long since left to make the flight for their honeymoon, Tsu, Marie, and their respective partners have also gone since cafe prep starts so early, Papa has disappeared, probably with some random guest, Patti will stay in a room provided by her sister and Crona the same, but Maka has opted out, and since she'd driven with Blake and Kid, she has a matter to take care of before she goes.

"Hey, I'm ready to go, so I'll leave you to it. You look-" she glances between them "-busy," she finally decides on. "And before you start protesting, not only am I a big girl and perfectly capable of grabbing a taxi, but I know you two are a thing now even if you've been keeping it from me like I'm made of glass or something, which you both damn well know I'm not, and I figure you might want some actual alone time."

They seem about to level some sort of ridiculous protest or other, Blake looking particularly indignant, when she feels a hand on her shoulder. She twists to see Soul has apparently followed her. He's finally lost the bun she'd gifted him, but his near bedhead still manages to look like he belongs in a magazine. Does the man ever look anything but model good?

"I can take you, if it's easier," he offers, and Maka doesn't like the look that passes between her two closest friends one little bit, but at least it's curbed them from making a scene about her big reveal.

"Sure, thanks," she says, because he's given her an out that will appease all and sundry and let them have their night, and she _will_ take it, meaningful looks be damned. "I'm ready if you are."

Apparently he is, because he starts to walk away after a casual, "See you around," to Kid and Blake. Maka ignores the exclamation of "Yeah girl, get it!" from Blake as she goes.

They're through the ballroom and out the door moments later, as he leads her to his- _motorcycle?_

A large, orange motorcycle sits idly in the parking garage, and he digs in a side pouch for a helmet for a moment along with a thick leather jacket, shoving both into her arms before mounting the thing. She blinks her surprise.

" _This_ is your ride?" Maka doesn't mean to sound so incredulous but there's a swirl of things circling her mind, coalescing into an idea she can't quite grasp, and she's reeling.

"Sure is." Soul smirks at her like the cat who got the cream. "You coming?"

Too stunned to protest, she wordlessly shrugs on the too large jacket, dons the helmet, and gets on behind him. Maka has been on a motorcycle before, so her hands grasp his waist automatically, too preoccupied to fish for the rear handles. He makes no protest, merely revs the thing and takes off, and she soaks in his warmth and his scent as the chaotic swirl within her mind begins to take form.

Soul Evans rides a motorcycle. Just like PMan.

Soul Evans was at a party tonight. Just like PMan.

More bits slide into place, click click click like a puzzle finally revealed.

 _Definitely getting my toes less than Patti did._

 _got roped into dancing my toes are numb_

Soul Evans got forced to dance and had his toes stepped on. Just like PMan.

Soul Evans plays piano. Just like PMan.

 _Play us a song, Pianoman!_ Wes Evans had shouted.

Soul Evans has a meddling older brother. Just like PMan. A brother who had called him Pianoman!

And- _AND_ -she recalls every party they've been to together, how Soul had spent so much time on his phone. Every time Soul Evans had attended a party she was at- _so had PMan._

And then, that night at her apartment…

 _I noticed you're pretty attached to your phone. Skype, right?_

Could Soul Evans be Pianoman?

The pieces firm up in her mind, resolving into the picture her subconscious has already worked out in her dreams.

Not only could he be, Maka is nearly positive in this moment that he actually _is_.

As they arrive in front of her building, she sits behind him for a few beats before half stumbling off the bike. He's up steadying her in an instant, brow furrowed again.

"You okay? I could walk you-"

"Fine. I'm fine. Just tired." She cuts him off, waves of his concern as she takes off his jacket and helmet to push into his arms, forcing him to remove his steadying hand. "Thanks for dancing and, um, for the ride."

Head and heart are both too full for more as she disappears into her building, leaving him staring after.

Because if Pianoman is Soul Evans, Maka has no idea what to do.


	8. Undercover Lover

It's Saturday morning and Maka has finally found the opportunity to test her hypothesis, to confirm what her heart and logic both scream at her to be true. Three weeks have passed since the wedding, three weeks since she's known, but she's needed a chance to study Soul unobserved, to see him in action, and now she has it. Or rather, she's contrived it.

She's spent those weeks just paying attention. The way he speaks. The things he speaks about. The little things he seems to know about her that he really shouldn't. Her conviction has grown with every new encounter, and she's seen him nearly every day since the wedding, but now-now she's ready to be _certain_.

Nestled into a corner of _Marie's_ in an oversized hoodie and sunglasses, she feels a little like a spy. Tsugumi, Marie's new hire, is working the counter and failed to recognize her, so far so good, so when Soul comes in at his usual time for coffee and takes a table shortly after, Maka has her chance, just as she hoped she would. Silently, she wonders as she types a message into her phone, if he eats in on purpose today, hoping to catch her. He never used to before that day at her apartment, always took his coffee and breakfast and left, but now he sits nibbling on a blueberry muffin looking for all the world like he cares about absolutely nothing. She's just glad he sits where she can see his face.

His phone must vibrate just after she hits send because he fishes it out of his pocket, reads the alert, and smiles. Abandoning his muffin for a moment to tap out a response, he puts his phone down an instant later and her own phone alerts her to a reply from Pianoman.

At the top sits her first message of the morning, the one she just sent:

 _Good morning, sunshine, hope sleep treated you well._

A far more economical response from PMan now lies below it:

 _pfffft nerd. slept fine u?_

Biting her lip in thought, Maka types out a reply. Time to cast a line and see where it lands.

 _Not bad, I guess. Couldn't sleep at first. I keep thinking about that guy from the wedding._

This time, his phone is on the table and she watches it vibrate just after she hits send.

 ** _Bingo._**

The way he positively lights up reading this, apathetic mask carelessly discarded, has her smiling herself.

He's done typing a few moments later and he puts down his phone again as a new notification appears on hers.

 _the 1 u hate?_

 ** _Asshole_** , she thinks as she replies,

 _I told you I don't hate him anymore, and yes._

His phone vibrates, he reads, he responds, hers pops up with an alert, vibrate mode off to ensure her stealth.

When she really considers it, the number of times they've messaged each other in the same place, same room, hell, _standing right next to each other,_ is staggering.

Azusa's party, where they'd ridden the same elevator down and she'd complained of him _to_ him and never knew it.

New Year's Eve, when he'd shown up on the balcony, typing the message in his phone she'd receive just after.

The wedding, when he'd told her about dancing and his toes. The wedding, when he clearly already knew that she's Bookworm.

A wave of upset floods her. She's thought about this many times since that night, many times since she finally connected the dots.

Because the night she was supposed to meet PMan, Soul Evans showed up instead. Soul Evans showed up and saw the flower and the book and her, and sat with her, and never breathed a goddamn word about why he was actually there, never even hinted he was Pianoman, let her think his online alter ego stood her up.

His message after, the apology and omissions, it all reads differently now.

When she'd made that connection about his simultaneous presence and absence at the cafe, the same night of the wedding, the same night she'd first recognized the truth, her immediate response was fury because _how dare he._ Maka came very close to messaging him, calling him out and letting the chips fall where they may. She's still not sure if that wouldn't have been the better move, but fear stilled her hand because she cared _so damn much_ about PMan, had been starting to care about Soul, too, in ways that had confused her then and now just _make sense_ , and she had wanted to understand, hadn't been ready to burn every bridge that led to him.

So Maka decided, that very same night, to put herself in his shoes and her anger had fizzled out quickly.

What if she had walked into _La Petite Mort_ that night and seen Soul Evans and realized he was Pianoman way back then?

The betrayal, the hurt, the _anger_ would have been overwhelming, that much she acknowledged instantly. Really, the way he had handled it was far better than what she likely would have done in his place.

He'd managed to sit with her, baiting though he'd been, and had decided somewhere in there that he cared enough to stay her friend.

There's no way she would have done the same, not back then in the middle of it all.

So that night of the wedding, she'd resolved to watch and wait, to try to figure it all out, and here she is now, every suspicion confirmed beyond doubt.

That night had changed everything. That night his brother had called him Pianoman and he had danced with her and then driven her home on his motorcycle. His scent and warmth still haunt her, as does the song he'd played. Was it for her? About _her_? She can't be sure, not totally, but who else could have touched his heart? Knowing, seeing, the way he looks at her and has since that night in her apartment. _She_ is the one who has somehow inspired such feelings, of that, at least, Maka has no doubt.

Stupid. She's been so stupid. He's been so stupid.

Maka notices he's started to fidget, tapping out a nervous rhythm against the table. So lost in thought, she's failed to check his last message, failed to respond. She isn't sorry-Soul deserves to squirm a little. More than a little. Still, she grabs up her phone.

 _so u like him now?_

The thing is, there's no easy answer to that, and while Maka had hoped absolute confirmation would bring her clarity, it hasn't.

 _Honestly? I don't know. Sometimes I think maybe I do. But with everything that's happened, it's confusing._

Pressing send, she sighs, watches as he snatches his phone the moment it vibrates, watches him frown at her latest message.

She tells the truth because she refuses to lie-she really _doesn't_ know. Even knowing who he really is beyond the smallest shadow of a doubt, she's still confused.

That she feels things, strong things, is beyond question. She's even pretty sure she'd loved PMan before that night at the cafe for as much as she had never met him and has never been in love before, hadn't even been convinced she was capable of it until those feelings had grown for him. But now that she knows Pianoman is Soul Evans, it's all just confusing. The things she felt for PMan, the strange way she's always been drawn to Soul, the anger, the near hate, that thing very close to friendship that came after-it's all muddled, a mess of strong emotion she can't quite untangle, at least, she hasn't been able to yet.

His ongoing deception doesn't help things either, though Maka understands that, too. It's another bit in which rage had quickly given way to understanding when she allowed herself to see things through his eyes. Because, that night at the cafe, if he had feelings her-for Bookworm-and he had discovered Bookworm is, well, _her_ , who still openly disliked him back then, well, he must have been terrified she'd reject him if she knew the truth, terrified that she would cut off all contact. In truth, she might have.

So Soul deceived her then by omission as he had when they first met, and he continues to deceive her the same way now. She can only guess he's still afraid of losing her. He can't know that's not really possible.

Because Maka may still be confused but the one thing she's sure of is that she doesn't want to lose him either.

Her phone finally pops up a new notification, and she notices he's collected his things and risen from the table.

 _probably confusing 4 him 2 but if he danced w u & drove u home he must like u. maybe u should talk 2 him. _

An involuntary snort from her, and he's swiveling his head in her direction, so she raises the newspaper she's bought for the occasion, shielding herself entirely. When she dares lower it again, he's gone, and she's left alone with his message.

He wants her to talk to him? Maybe she will then. Maybe it's time, just not in the way he thinks.

In her head, Maka begins to plan as she sips at the remains of her mocha. There's been enough deception, she thinks.

If he wants to talk, they'll talk. On her terms, at the time and place of her choosing. It's past time for them both to come clean and let the chips fall where they may.

* * *

While they often enough orchestrate meetings these days, running into her in the park is wholly unexpected.

She sits next to the bench as he watches Aiden and Indra run around the playground, envying just a little the freedom, energy, _sheer joy_ they exhibit.

There's a reason he doesn't say no when Killik asks him to babysit for the evening.

Maka looks more thoughtful than usual as she watches the kids play, offering him some popcorn from the bag she's just purchased. He hates how popcorn sticks in his ridiculous teeth but takes a handful anyway.

"You like kids."

It's clearly not a question. He hums semi affirmation, but adds, "some kids."

"How do you choose?" Maka continues to munch on her popcorn, watching the playscape.

"How do you choose to like anyone? Kids are just tiny people. Some are assholes, some aren't." Since she offers more popcorn, he takes it. His gums will definitely hate him later.

"And you don't like most people." Again, not a question.

"Not really." He side-eyes her warily. Their conversations have become more-he doesn't even know, theoretical or philosophical or _something_ since the wedding, and he's not sure why. Had their time together, their dancing, had it meant something to her in spite of everything? Soul really wishes he knew, that he possessed some sort of magic mirror that can read the secrets of her heart. "I make some exceptions, though."

Her little laugh startles him. "My mama once told me she never wanted kids, didn't even like kids until she had me, that I was the exception that changed her rule." Maka sobers quickly enough and turns wide, inquisitive eyes his way. "I wonder, am I an exception for you, too?" She takes a handful of popcorn and places it in his empty hand, using her other hand to close his fingers around it as she gives him the most secretive little smile.

"Dunno," he says, clutching the popcorn. "Jury's out." They watch the kids in silence for a moment, then Soul adds, "But pretty sure I'm forever on your shit list so it doesn't really matter, right?"

So he's fishing. Just a little

She hums. "Dunno, actually. Jury's out."

Four little words. A world of promise.

For a time, they just sit and munch popcorn and watch, and it's nice, it's _companionable_. Then she half turns to him, expression thoughtful.

"Do you like what you do?" She tilts her head ever so slightly, gaze searching. "It's funny, but if I didn't know, I'd never peg you for the business type. And the way you played at the wedding-you seem to really love music. You definitely seem more like a musician."

The barest shrug. "Maybe once. Didn't last." He's afraid to reveal too much, afraid to share what he's been meaning to for weeks, afraid to tell her how he longs to follow his dreams and that she's given him the courage to try because these are things that she doesn't know, hasn't asked, not to him. Because, for her, asking PMan still isn't the same thing as asking _Soul_ , and he hates it, hates that she still doesn't know, hates that he still hides the truth out of sheer fear.

"Ah, well, I'm sorry for that." Her eyes are full of something, some unnamed emotion that makes him want to reach out and touch her, clutch her hand, share her strength, lend her his. But he doesn't have that privilege and whatever it is passes quickly enough as she nods her head towards the playscape. "I think someone wants your attention."

Someone clearly does, or rather, two little someones, who are currently waving wildly from where they've managed to climb to the top of the playscape where they clearly don't belong.

" _Fuck_ ," he growls and then he's up, racing to the playscape for a rescue that, in the end, Maka is the one who executes. She climbs the thing like it's nothing, and all of Bookworm's claims to college gymnast status read as absolute truth.

The kids mob Maka upon rescue, ecstatic to see "the storybook lady." They clamor for her to stay, so Soul invites her for ice cream and she agrees and, somehow, a day like this, with him and Maka and the kids, it feels _right_ , like back in the shop when they'd first met before it all went to hell and back.

Is it too much to hope they've come full circle?

The way Maka smiles at him as they part in front of his building is something half sad, half tinged with fondness and maybe regret, and it makes him think that they have. Or maybe he just hopes it.

Later that night, he messages Bookworm what he'd been afraid to tell Maka at the park.

 _remember how u told me i should follow my dream?_

 _Yeah_. Her response is quick.

 _i know i never told u but my dream was 2b a jazz pianist. which is probably pretty obvs from my email. my rents made me go in 2 the family biz but that was always my dream neway i told u id tell u if nething happened so im telling u i got a regular gig at a local club_

Soul can't wipe the smile off his face as he presses send, but then she responds.

 _That's amazing! I wish I could hear you play!_

His smile falters because he wishes too, wishes so damn much there's an ache in his chest, the chunk of his heart she's stolen, the piece of him that will always _always_ be hers.

As he types a quick _me 2,_ the words she'd said weeks ago as she'd danced with him, warm and right in his arms, haunt him.

 ** _I really liked your song._**

What she doesn't know is it's _her_ song as much as his, that without her, there had been an empty place in his heart where her song belongs.

Maka deserves to know. He just wishes he knew how to tell her.

* * *

"So, ya gonna tell Soul ya like him or what?"

Maka nearly chokes on her tandoori chicken, gaping at the bouncy blonde at her elbow who looks far too innocent for what had just come out of her mouth.

Really, Maka ought to have been more suspicious when Pat called her up last night and asked if she wanted to get lunch with the whole crew since Maka and Kid are usually the ones who make advanced plans. But she hasn't seen Kid and Blake much since they talked things out the day after the wedding, since they'd both apologized for not telling her they're together and she'd told them how happy she is for them and she'd ignored a few gross innuendos from Blake about Soul driving her home, and she wants to make sure everything is back to normal. Plus, Tsu and Mifune are supposed to come and Tsubaki has been so busy since Marie made her a partner at the cafe that she's hardly seen her.

Yes, Maka should have been more suspicious even then, and she definitely should have heard blaring alarm bells when she showed up and Pat was here and everyone else was _late_ because Kid is _never_ late, and damnit, she had walked right into an ambush!

She might love _Yama_ , but even good Indian food and the prospect of family aren't worth _this_.

" _What?"_ she finally manages to rasp out after several large gulps of water.

"Look, Maka, Maks, Bookworm, here's the dealio." The fact Patti has used the online name she shares with exactly no one in her everyday life isn't lost on her. Pat leans forward conspiratorially. "Ya got the hots for this Pianoman guy, right?"

One blink, two. How can Patti…

"And no, Kid didn't tell me, so don't blame him when everyone shows." Maka hasn't even gotten that far, mind too numb. "Annnyyyway, I also know ya've been hanging out with my boy Soul. A lot. Ya like him, right?"

A head shake because what, and _yes,_ but also, _it's none of anyone's business_ and she's handling it, damnit!

"Denial really isn't just a river in Egypt. Saaaad. Whatever, however ya wanna play it about Soul, the thing is, I _know_ this Pianoman dude stood ya up and then, heyo, Soul showed up-ever wonder how that happened?"

Well, not anymore, no. Her mouth works but no words come.

"Because, and I'm only tellin' ya this because you guys have reaaaaally got to get yer shit together-don't think I didn't see ya dancing like that at the wedding-Soul is-wait for it- _Pianoman_."

A long sigh punctuated by, "Yeah, I know."

"That's what I'm sayin', ya-" Maka's words finally register and it's Patti's turn to blink. "-ya _know_?"

"Yeaaaah." Maka should not feel guilty, not when Patti is in on the deception. "I sort of figured it out at the wedding. The real question is, how do _you_ know?"

A shrug, entirely nonchalant. "Wes was there, so he knew, and Wes tells sis everything, who tells _me_ everything, so there ya have it, not the point. The _point_ is, if ya know, then why aren't ya _doin_ ' somethin' about it? It's not like ya don't like him."

Blake rolls in just then, Kid trailing behind him and Crona just after. "Maka likes who now?" he says as he takes the seat on her other side at the oversized table Patti has reserved, Kid next to him, Crona next to Pat.

"Soul Evans," Patti supplies easily at the same time Maka hisses, " _No one!_ "

"Oh ho!" His grin is so maniacal that Maka braces for impact. "Soul fucking _Evans_? Or is that _fucking_ Soul Evans? So you really _are_ sleeping with the enemy now, Maks?"

"I am _not_ sleeping with Soul Evans, lower your voice!" Her entire body has gone rigid. This isn't the nice family lunch she'd been promised!

"But ya _wanna_ ," Pat chimes in.

"I do not-"

"Suuuure that's why you two were totally eye fucking during that whole-" he waves a hand then uses his other hand to snatch a large chunk of her tandoori chicken and pop it in his mouth "-garter thing, _and_ the rest of the night when you two danced, and _then,_ you let him take you home, but sure, no shenanigans there."

"I-what? We were _not_ -eye _anything?_ " The very idea...

"Eye fucking, and you guys totally were."

Maka shakes her head vehemently.

"He has a point," Kid says from the other side of Blake. "You did seem rather-absorbed with him."

"Or like ya wanna absorb him," Patti says with the dirtiest eyebrow waggle Maka has ever seen and why is Crona, _sweet, innocent Crona,_ of all people, who had seemed so displeased whenever Pianoman came up, nodding so enthusiastically next to her? So much time with Patti is clearly corrupting them.

"I do _not!"_ Why are these people her family? Maka needs new friends, clearly.

"You don't what?" Tsubaki walks over just then, looking as serene as ever in her spring sundress, Mifune in tow. They sit next to Crona and Pat, Marie and Stein bringing up the rear and filling in the end of the table.

"Have a boyfriend," Kid supplies, which is far better than Blake, who says at the same time, "Wanna fuck Soul Evans."

Blessed Tsubaki looks thoughtful for a second and Maka thinks she's saved, but it's fleeting as a smile spreads across her face. "Oh, Maka, that's wonderful!"

"I always thought you two would be good together," Marie says from her end of the table. Baby Shelly is asleep in her carrier, which is propped on a stand at the end of the table. She adds, as she tucks in her blanket, "I just wasn't sure it was possible with-" she waves a hand "-everything."

At that moment, the server finally makes his way over to collect orders from the newcomers. Maka orders more tandoori chicken since Blake has managed to snake half her food in the process of completely mortifying her, but it gives her a moment to collect her thoughts and hopefully nip this- _whatever it is-_ -in the bud.

"Alright." She takes a deep, calming breath before addressing the table from her end of it. The table is lined with most of the people she considers family. Hell, maybe Liz can return early from her extended honeymoon and Sid and Mira can suddenly appear from their new home in San Diego and make it a real party! She thanks her lucky stars her papa is away on a voiceover gig. "Let's get this straight, for the record. Soul Evans and I are not dating or-having relations-or anything of the kind. We aren't even really _friends_ -we're-casual acquaintances _at best_ , nothing more, so if you could just-"

"But-eye fucking, Maks," Blake interrupts with a lewd grin. "Eye. Fucking."

"We were not-"

"Oh! At the wedding!" Tsubaki, who had missed that portion of this shit show, supplies helpfully.

"No, that's-"

"Mmmm, there was definitely some-rather intense eye contact exchanged between you and Mr. Evans," Frank Stein offers from the other side of the table.

Everyone nods fervent agreement, even the generally mild Mifune, even Crona, the traitor! At least Patti has refrained from bringing up her knowledge of Pianoman. Do they _all_ know?! What a mess. Maka's never had a real love life, and now that she's maybe kind of sort of stumbled into one, it's on display for everyone she loves like the latest romcom.

"We aren't-we weren't-we don't- _ugh_!" Maka puts her head in her hands in defeat.

"Maka, sweetie," Maka's godmother Marie says from her place near Stein. Maka raises her head from her hands cautiously.

"You believe me, don't you?" Maka says hopefully. The whole thing is absurd. Because yeah, there are feelings there, but even she's having trouble sorting them, and sure, maybe she's had a few vivid dreams and maybe he kind of sort of makes her feel overheated, and maybe she can't shake the smell of his cologne, but even she has no idea what it all means.

Marie hums. "I believe you don't want to talk about it," she says. "And that we should all respect that." She sweeps her gaze pointedly down the table, and even Blake looks sheepish. "I honestly didn't think you-liked people that way," she adds, and relief floods Maka, only to be snatched away in an instant. "Not until the past few months. But-seeing you two together at the cafe, and then the way you looked at each other at the wedding. Maka, I've never seen you look at _anyone_ the way you look at Soul."

"Like I said, eye fucking!"

Blake elbows her, and there are snickers that end when Marie sends a sharp look around the table. The rest of lunch, no one mentions Soul Evans, but Maka can't get him out of her head.

If it's this obvious to her friends, then it really _is_ time for her to take action. Maka has always believed that love would be more like salt than sugar if she found it, more savory than sweet. Has she found that with Pianoman, with _Soul_?

Maybe. It might not last, might not end well, she can't tell the future, but that her feelings are strong and deep and tempered in fire, these things she knows. That she likes her time better with Soul than without him, this she can also admit. He enhances, he makes better, he's her salt.

As she chews on her second batch of tandoori chicken and listens to her friends, Maka is resolved. No more waiting. A few days ago, she'd decided they'd talk but she has yet to take action. That ends now.

It's time to finally reach for the salt.

* * *

 _Do you love me?_

Soul stares at the message for the hundredth time because _of course_ he does, he just doesn't expect her to ask.

But he has to respond, can't stand to consider her anxiety as the seconds pass into minutes, so he finally replies with simple truth.

 _yes have for a long time_

His heart beats rapidly in his chest because he has no idea where she's going with this and he's terrified and elated all at once.

His phone vibrates, her message flashes, his heart sinks like a stone.

 _Do you want to meet me?_

 ** _Fuck_** _._ Yes but no but _yes_.

Of course he wants to meet her, anytime, anywhere. He's just not convinced the truth won't make her run screaming. Even after the park yesterday, he just isn't _sure_.

Still, if to say yes is to risk losing her, to say no is to assure hurting her, and he's done enough of that for several lifetimes. He won't do it again, even if it risks his own future heartache.

Once again he doesn't hesitate long, won't make her wait and worry.

 _yeah_

It's almost as if she's typed her response and is poised over the send button-her reply is instantaneous.

 _Today?_

 _ok,_ he sends back, not allowing himself time to overthink.

The next response takes only a little longer.

 _Reaper Square Park in an hour by the fountain? Wear red, I'll be wearing green and carrying a lily._

Breathe breathe breathe. Respond.

 _ok see u then_

Letting out another long breath, Soul tries and fails not to panic. An hour isn't much time. An hour and this all falls to shit. _He isn't ready for it to all fall to shit._

Will she hate him again, knowing he's deceived her? Probably. Fuck. _Fuck_.

But he'd answered her question, too, she knows he loves her, so maybe-maybe eventually she'll listen.

Soul doesn't have time to panic. _Reaper Square Park_ is across the city and he has to go home and get ready, wants to look like he gives a shit because he _does_.

Getting up from his desk, he hurries out of his office, halting at his assistant's desk just outside.

Soul still can't decide if he's annoyed at or thankful to his assistant for what happened at the wedding; Harv helps his boyfriend when he MCs and "Lovegame" had been the assistant's selection. It had been one of the most mortifying moments of a life filled with mortifying moments, but also-well, Soul has never been all that interested in sex. Masturbation suits him fine when his body insists, but sex with an actual live person? Not something he's ever really wanted. Except, more recently, he dreams about Maka that way, and even more recently, he _thinks_ about Maka that way. And then, seeing her in that moment, as she'd looked at him like he was some decadent morsel that she wanted to absolutely devour? The way she'd moved, running her hand up his body just shy of touching when, _fuck,_ how he wanted her to touch? To say he'd been grateful his tuxedo pants concealed just how much she affected him _then_ would be an understatement, and he needs to stop thinking about this _now_ before this becomes another check mark on Soul Evans' list of especially embarrassing moments.

"What is it?" Harv finally deigns to acknowledge his presence. He's typing up something or other on his desktop, maybe the numbers Olivia Evans had asked for earlier.

"Gotta go. Got something to take care of." He tries to sound casual, he really does, but his mask is slipping and even he can hear the impatience in his voice.

"Of _course_ you do since you're supposed to be on a conference call with your mother in an hour. How long?" His eyes never leave the screen behind those perpetually dark glasses.

"I won't be back." He's managed to regain his composure, voice bored

"And just what should I tell Mrs. Evans?" Harv is equally adept at bored apathy; it's why they work so well together.

"Who the fuck _cares?_ Tell her something came up and have Ford give her the numbers."

"Have Ford give who what numbers?" Ox Ford has somehow appeared when he's least wanted. He sort of has a knack for that, but he's also a gifted organizer and has the store running so well he's been made head of DC operations, his talents wasted as a mere assistant. Or so Wes had insisted. Soul is pretty sure his brother had just been looking for an excuse to remove the boil from his ass, but in truth, the guy is competent and it leaves Soul himself with far less day to day bullshit to handle (or maybe shuffle off to Harv), so he's fine with the situation. Except for when the guy creeps up like a fucking ninja and wields his unwanted opinions like a flaming bag of crap.

"Soul has a conference call set up with Olivia in-" he glances pointedly at the Apple Watch on his wrist "-50 minutes now, to present retail numbers."

"I trust in your ability to handle this as head of DC operations," Soul offers. Ox definitely responds well to praise. "You know the numbers."

"She doesn't just want DC numbers." Harv is being so _Harv_ that Soul could scream because _he needs to go_. "Retail. She asked for-"

"Like Ox doesn't keep up on those, too." Soul can't help the eyeroll. "Tell him," he looks pointedly at Ox Ford, who puffs with pride.

"I keep myself well apprised of general operations, yes-"

"Perfect," Soul cuts him off, looks to Harv, "go over whatever you typed up for me and give mother my love and abject apology, whatever, I gotta go. Thanks, I owe you. Later."

Not giving them a backward glance, refusing to offer an opening where they can waste more of his precious time, Soul practically sprints through the store and out the doors, half jogging down the street and towards his building. He must look fucking ridiculous running down the streets of DC in a godsdamned suit, but he just can't be arsed to care; not being late so he won't leave Maka hanging _again_ is the only thought in his head just now.

By the time he reaches his place, he's so winded he ends up hunched over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath as he takes the elevator up to the penthouse.

He's so sweaty that he _has_ to shower, refuses to smell like he just got out of the gym for this, but he'll-take the bike. Yeah. He'll make it.

Half an hour later he's showered, shaved, blow dried, coiffed, and perfumed as he buttons up a red shirt he particularly likes before tucking it and smoothing his dark slacks. He frowns at the mirror. He's as presentable as he gets, the same weird emo looking guy she's come to know and-like? He hopes?

There's an urge to pace and fret, maybe think out what he wants to say, but there's no damn _time_.

Ten minutes to go, he might just make it with no traffic. Maybe. If by some miracle no traffic is actually a thing during DC rush hour. _Fuck_.

Down the elevator, out the door, he's gotta-

"You're going to be late."

He's halted in his tracks, nearly careening into a gilded garbage can in the front entryway when he hears a familiar voice that _absolutely should not be here and now-what?_

Yet she _is_. Maka Albarn stands casually leaned up against one of the ornate pillars that fronts his building. Her hair is down and she wears a short, dark, flowy skirt along with a dark green sweater. In her left hand, she grips a lily.

"Don't you have-somewhere to be?" He blinks at her, confused.

"Well, yeah," she says with a slight tilt of the head. Fierce green eyes pin him in place and if the warning weren't already shrieking in his head a moment ago, it certainly would be now. Danger, Soul Evans, _danger_. "But honestly, I thought it would save time to meet you here. The park is always crowded late afternoon."

"But-I- _how_?" Confusion robs his every ability to make words.

"You're not as sly as you think you are, _Pianoman_." Maka walks closer, puts a hand on his chest near his heart just as she had the night of the wedding, and the way she says the last word is so reminiscent of Wes two weeks ago, he nearly groans.

"I'm sorry, Maka, I'm-just _so sorry_." Her hand doesn't leave his chest, so he clutches it because he needs a lifeline, needs to be sure she's solid and here and will listen but-but-she _knows_ and she's _here_. She's here-because she _knows_. "When-I mean-how long-"

Maka sighs but doesn't remove her hand, doesn't try to snatch it away. "Since the wedding. Your brother called you Pianoman, and you had a motorcycle-and I don't know, the more I thought about it, the more I just _knew_."

 _Fuckin' Wes._ Not actually voicing it is a near thing.

Soul is just so damn confused. "But you didn't-" he shakes his head "-I mean, why didn't you _say_ anything?"

"Why didn't _you_?" Her eyes narrow, the green toxic as she looks up at him.

It's his turn to sigh. "Alright, alright, point taken." He removes his hand to scratch at the back of his neck nervously and Maka lets hers fall back to her side. He misses her warmth immediately.

When silence stretches and she still looks up at him expectantly, he realizes he's going to have to _use his words._ Words aren't much his thing, never have been, though with her-with Bookworm- words were most of what he'd had and he'd managed. He takes in a cleansing breath; he can do this. Or rather, he _will_ do this, because she's here and he will fight with everything he is if it means she'll stay.

"Well, uh, I guess in the beginning, I was just confused," he finally says, and god, are they really going to do this in front of his building? Maka seems to have zero inclination to move and he's too afraid to do _anything_ that might spook her, so he supposes the doorman is getting a free show. Fantastic. Wes will be _so_ pleased.

"I mean," he continues as she herself continues to say nothing, "That night at the cafe, I just-I had no idea what to do, what I was doing, because here was the person I lo-uh-liked, and it turns out, she's the one person who absolutely hates me."

"I never hated you." She crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

"Well, you sure as shit didn't _like_ me."

The fact she doesn't protest is confirmation enough.

"So I acted like a jackass-and fuck-" this time his hand is in the back of his hair, tugging mercilessly "-I'm _so fucking sorry_ for that, I-"

"We were both jackasses, go on." He wants to protest, but doesn't dare defy her just now, so he keeps going.

"Okay. After the cafe, I don't know, I was still confused at first, but I still cared so much, you know? So I thought maybe I just couldn't talk to you anymore-that Pianoman couldn't talk to Bookworm. But then you wrote that letter and I just-couldn't. And I didn't _want_ to."

She's biting her lip, gaze intense as she listens.

"I couldn't lose-what we had. So I decided we'd just-stay that way. I mean, I knew you hated me, hated Soul, and I couldn't stand the thought of you hating PMan too and losing you entirely. But it was-" he's shaking his head again and he feels like _such an idiot,_ stammering out his heart amidst her silence, but if this is what she needs from him, well, he'd do far more to soothe her, to make it right. "I don't know, it wasn't _enough,_ and I hated that you didn't know the truth, and I wanted to see if maybe-maybe you could see _me, Soul,_ as someone worth your time, not just Pianoman, and I really hated the thought I hurt you and I realized you were my salt, and just-god, I wanted to make it right. I had to at least _try_." His heart hurts, remembering his pain, remembering hers, but she deserves to hear it, all of it, deserves to be judge, jury, and even executioner if that's her final play. "And then it was like a fucking _miracle_ -you actually-let me try. I didn't deserve it, but you let me anyway, and god, fuck-"

"But you still didn't tell me." Maka looks so hurt he wants to punch himself in the face for causing it. "Even when you must've realized I didn't hate you anymore, you still-"

"I was afraid," he cuts her off as she just had, unwilling to let her words spiral into complete misunderstanding. "I was _Terrified_. That you'd hate me all over again." His hand goes to the back of his neck once more, and he bites his lip in thought for an instant. "I know how much-how much it bothered you, when I didn't tell you who I was that day in the shop, and I was so damned afraid to lose you, don't you _get it_?" He's grabbing her nearest hand before he even knows it, squeezing it around the lily she still clutches, holding on for purchase, for dear life. That's it, that's all, he's told his truth. Time for her to decide.

"Because you love me." It's a statement, an echo of what Pianoman had admitted to Bookworm a mere hour ago.

"Because I love you."

"Okay." She nods, shifts her grip to hold the lily between both of their palms, squeezes his hand.

"Oh-kay?" he questions, breathless and reeling.

"Yeah. Okay." Maka takes a deep breath and places her free hand on his cheek. "I-I love you, too. So okay." And then she's pulling his head down, searching his eyes, giving him the option to pull away. As if he _would_.

Her lips are warm and sweet with gloss and much better than he ever thought they would be.

Soul reaches for her, wraps her in his arms, relishes her own arms around him. And as their kiss continues, their first of many, as he tastes the salt of tears that he can't be sure are hers or his own, savory against the sweet, he thinks that love really is like salt.


End file.
